CHAPTER 3: The Last Light

CHAPTER 3: The Last Light

Before she could write more, the door creaked open.

"Hey," Wexley said gently, stepping in with a soft bundle of clothes in his arms and a sheepish expression. His eyes drifted over the scattered pages—the still-wet ink, her fingers stained blue.

He stopped short.

"You're writing," he said, his voice low.

She nodded, her eyes lingering on the page.

"For him?" His voice softened, a quiet understanding in his tone.

"It's the only thing I can leave behind for him," she replied, her voice steady but heavy with meaning.

She blinked. "Wexley?"

He offered a crooked smile. "Come on. Get dressed."

"What?" she rasped, surprised by how hoarse she sounded. "Why?"

"No time to explain," he said, moving toward her. "Just trust me. Get ready."

Elira stared at him. Her body ached. Her hands were still ink-stained from the letter. "Wexley, I'm not supposed to leave the hospital."

"You can today," he said calmly, but with urgency behind it. "The doctor cleared it. I got permission. I just have to bring you back before nightfall."

She frowned, her pulse ticking up. "You what—? Wexley, I can't just leave. What about Damian—?"

"He's fine. My sister picked him up. She's watching him with her kids."

She sat up straighter, the word stranger ringing loud in her mind. "I don't know your sister. Why would you hand my son off to someone I've never even met?!"

He hesitated. Then stepped closer.

"Elira," he said softly, "I swear to you—he's safe. I'd never do anything that put him at risk. You know me."

She looked into his eyes, heart pounding. There was no apology there—only certainty. And a quiet, unshakable kind of love.

Still, she hesitated.

Wexley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright. I'll drive you over first. You can see for yourself. Does that help?"

She stared at him, weighing it, then gave a small nod. "Fine."

As she dressed, her fingers trembled. She hadn't worn anything other than hospital gowns in weeks. The fabric of the dress—soft and light—felt almost foreign. Like a memory she wasn't sure belonged to her anymore.

In the car, she kept her gaze on the window. The world moved in golden blurs. Trees, rooftops, children chasing birds. Life, still spinning.

It was strange—being outside. She couldn't decide if she felt lucky… or like she was stealing time she didn't deserve.

Wexley broke the silence. "I didn't mean to spring this on you. I just…" He paused.

She turned, surprised to find him already watching her.

"I just needed a few hours," he said, voice low. "With you."

She blinked, her throat tightening. "…Alright."

He looked at her like he hadn't expected her to say yes. "Wait. What does 'alright' mean?"

She gave him a flat look. "Really?"

"I need to hear you say it," he insisted, eyes earnest.

She sighed. "Damian is safe with your sister, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Then let's go wherever you're taking me."

His grin returned, softer this time. Relieved.

At the shop, she hesitated. "Why are we here?"

"I want you to pick something to wear," he said. "And get your hair done."

Her eyes narrowed. "Wexley, what are you planning? Why do I need a new outfit and styled hair?"

"You ask too many questions," he said, grinning. "Just trust me. I've got it covered."

She frowned—but followed him inside anyway.

When she stepped out from the stylist's chair, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair had been gently curled, her face softened by powder and warm tones. The dress—simple but elegant—hugged her gently, like something from a better life.

She stared at her reflection.

God. I look alive.

"It's too much," she whispered. "I'm only going to wear it once."

Wexley grinned. "Well, I could ask them to bury you in it, if that helps."

Then his face crumpled. "That was—God, that was awful. Forget I said that."

She blinked—and then laughed. A small, hoarse thing, but real. "It's fine. Morbid humor suits us."

And for the first time in days, something heavy in her chest let go.

She noticed then—he'd changed too. His shirt was crisp, his hair brushed, though his tie sat just crooked enough to betray a rushed effort.

"You still haven't told me why we're dressed like this," she said.

"Haven't you figured it out?" he replied. "It's a surprise."

She rolled her eyes, but let him lead her into the steam car. As they drove, he kept glancing at her—first subtly, then shamelessly.

"What?" she asked, heat blooming in her cheeks.

He smiled. "Just trying to find the right words for how stunning you look."

She hesitated. Her hand drifted to her lap. "Even now? With the way I look… the way this illness has thinned me out?"

His smile didn't falter. "Even now. You're the most spectacular person wherever you are. Not just today. Not just here. Always."

Her breath caught.

She looked away.

"…That was surprisingly good," she murmured.

"I practiced."

When the car finally stopped beside a quiet meadow, the late afternoon light wrapped the hills in gold. Wexley jumped out, opened her door, and offered his arm like a gentleman from a different century.

She took it, slow and careful. Her body didn't move like it used to. Her strength was a paper-thin thing, fluttering.

"…Thank you," she whispered, steadying herself beside him. "For all of this. And for what you said back there."

He turned to her, gently cupping her chin and lifting her face. "I meant everything I said, Elira."

Her breath caught.

He was so close.

Too close.

And yet—not nearly close enough.

God. This again. That familiar pull beneath her ribs, sharp and stupid and soft all at once.

Her mind spun, unbidden, to the last time they'd been this near. That night in her living room—blankets rumpled between them, the quiet too loud. He'd leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice rough as he'd said it:

"I don't care about the board. Or the school. I care about you."

And she'd frozen.

Not because she didn't want to believe him—but because she did. Because she'd felt it, the way he looked at her like she was worth saving. Worth loving. And the worst part? She'd wanted to let him.

So badly.

She remembered the way his fingers had hovered inches from hers, trembling with restraint. The way her body had leaned toward him without permission—every cell aching for contact, for comfort, for something real.

She could've kissed him.

She almost did.

But then came the guilt. The fear. The aching memory of every good thing that had ever slipped through her hands. And she'd stayed still.

Because if she let herself want that—and lost it—she didn't know if she'd survive the breaking.

Now, standing in this meadow, the same tension hummed in the air between them, electric and brittle.

Wexley's eyes searched hers, gentle but unflinching.

Her lips parted, heart stumbling wildly.

Do it, something inside her whispered. Just once. Let go.

But she didn't.

Not yet.

Instead, she looked away, jaw tight, the ache blooming under her ribs.

"…Where are we?" she asked, voice thinner than before.

"I wanted to take you on a date," he said simply. "But you can't be around crowds, and I wanted you to feel… free. So, I brought the date to a place where we wouldn't have to worry about anyone else."

She smirked, trying to reel her pulse back in. "When did I agree to go on a date with you?"

"You didn't," he said, guiding her toward the blanket already laid out. "But you're here. So I'm counting it."

She laughed—low and breathy. God, when was the last time she'd laughed like this?

As they settled in, her dress whispering over the grass, the light softened around them. He unpacked the basket with quiet focus: roasted vegetables, soft bread, honeyed tarts. Tea in tiny glass bottles.

She watched him—hands careful, brow slightly furrowed—and her chest squeezed.

He was nervous. She could see it in the way he adjusted the plates too many times. In the way he glanced at her, then quickly away.

She reached out and touched his hand.

He went still.

"I've never been taken on a real date before," she said softly. "Not like this."

He looked up, startled. "You deserve ten thousand more."

She tried to laugh again, but it caught. Her throat burned.

How long had it been since someone made her feel wanted without asking for anything back? Since someone tried—not out of pity—but because they remembered the tiniest pieces of her?

She didn't say any of it.

She just leaned into his shoulder, feeling the quiet fill the space between them like breath.

After a while, Wexley shifted beside her and reached into the larger basket.**

"You didn't think I'd bring you all this way without dessert, did you?" he murmured.

He pulled out a chilled container, then another. And another.

Elira blinked as he began lining them up: strawberry, vanilla bean, chocolate swirl, caramel almond crunch—at least six different flavors, each glistening with frost in the golden light.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Ice cream?" she whispered.

Wexley gave her a crooked smile. "You once said you'd never had ice cream. So… I bought the whole collection."

She stared at the array, her vision suddenly swimming. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears surged up without warning.

"I used to pass the parlor with Damian," she said, voice thin. "He'd press his face to the glass, and I'd pretend we were just looking. Like we were too full to eat more. But the truth was… I couldn't afford even one scoop. Not even for him."

Her voice cracked. A raw, shameful sound. She hadn't meant to say so much.

Wexley didn't speak. He didn't interrupt with reassurances or empty comforts.

He just sat there—solid, warm, steady—and handed her a spoon.

She eyed it warily at first, like it might bite. Wexley gave the bowl a small nudge toward her, the gesture quiet but certain.

She looked at him, one eyebrow lifting, not moving to take it.

Without a word, he scooped a bit for himself and brought it to his mouth, chewing nothing but holding her gaze like a dare. Then, he dipped the spoon back in, carefully, and held it out to her.

Her fingers closed around it slowly.

She took a breath.

Then a bite.

The cold hit first—sharp and sudden. Her eyes fluttered shut. It was sweeter than she expected, soft and smooth on her tongue, almost creamy.

She blinked, surprised.

"Oh," she murmured, already going in for another bite. "Th… This is amazing."

It melted on her tongue, silky and cold, then bloomed into sweetness like nothing she'd ever tasted.

"Is this what clouds are meant to taste like?!" she asked, eyes wide, voice almost breathless.

She looked up at Wexley, serious. "Why didn't anyone tell me ice cream tasted like this? I thought people were exaggerating!"

He started to chuckle, but she wasn't done.

"I could eat a whole bucket. I want to roll in it. I want to slap someone. I want to cry a little," she said in a rush, and that's what broke him—he burst out laughing.

A warm, deep sound that made her grin like a child with sticky fingers and no regrets.

When his laughter faded, he didn't speak. He only looked at her—still, quiet—like she'd done something sacred without realizing. There was that softness again, the one he tried to hide behind dry wit and appointments and the weight of a thousand unspoken things.

It settled between them. The silence. But it wasn't empty. It was full.

She didn't look away.

It was just ice cream. But it was good. Really good. And for a few seconds, it made her forget how tired she felt, that she wasn't slowly dying, wasn't the woman about to leave her son alone in the world.

She was just... here.

And that wrecked her more than the ice cream ever could.

She could already picture Damian's grin if he ever tried this one—eyes wide, spoon halfway to his mouth, declaring it "honeybun worthy" with dramatic flair.

Her next words came out fragile. "Can we pack some of this? Take it home for Damian?"

He smiled. "Of course. We'll take everything he might like."

She nodded, looking away quickly—but not before her heart lurched hard in her chest.

God help her, she was falling for him. Really falling.

Not because of the ice cream. Not because of the dress.

But because he remembered.

Because he saw the quiet, hungry ache she'd never spoken aloud—and met it with soft, steady abundance.

He smiled. "Of course. We'll take everything he might like."

She nodded, looking away quickly—but not before her heart lurched hard in her chest.

God help her, she was falling for him. Really falling.

Not because of the ice cream. Not because of the dress.

But because he remembered.

Because he saw the quiet, hungry ache she'd never spoken aloud—and met it with soft, steady abundance.

The drive to his sister's house was quiet, but not tense. Just full. Weighted with unsaid things, with glances traded through the reflection of glass. Elira's fingers rested on the basket of sweets in her lap like it was something sacred. Wexley didn't speak, didn't press. He simply drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally shifting, as though he longed to reach for hers.

The house was warm even from the outside—a small, ivy-draped thing glowing at the edges with golden light. Someone had opened a window; laughter floated through it like windchimes.

Elira froze on the step.

"I haven't met any of your family before," she murmured.

"You've met the important one," he said gently, opening the door for her. "He's inside."

The smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it.

The door swung open before they could knock.

Mara—bright-eyed, a streak of flour across her cheek—greeted them with a gasp of delight. "You must be Elira!"

Before Elira could speak, she was swept into a soft, careful hug. Mara smelled like nutmeg and lavender, her embrace warm but brief, as if she sensed Elira's hesitation and honored it.

"I'm Mara," she said, pulling back. "Wexley's much better half when we were kids."

"Still debatable," Wexley muttered behind her.

Mara grinned, then turned earnest, her hand briefly squeezing Elira's. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through—but I'm so glad you're here tonight."

"Thank you," Elira managed.

"Come on. He's in the playroom. Hasn't stopped talking about you since he arrived."

They followed the gentle clatter of toys and childlike laughter through the hallway. Crayon drawings lined the walls in every color imaginable. Elira's fingers brushed over one—a sun with a smiling face and oddly familiar curly hair.

Mara stepped aside at the doorway. "Go on."

Elira peeked inside.

Damian was kneeling on the rug with two other children, deep in a block tower competition. His face was flushed, his sleeves pushed up, his expression focused—but happy. So happy.

She hadn't seen him like this in… too long.

"Damian," she whispered.

He looked up.

And the way his face lit up—

"Mama!"

He bolted across the room, feet thudding wildly on the wooden floor.

She dropped to her knees just in time to catch him.

The impact stole the breath from her lungs.

Not because he was heavy—but because she wasn't strong. Not anymore.

Her arms trembled around him. Her chest ached with the sudden pressure, and not just from the force of his hug. From the cruel reminder of what she had become.

She wheezed quietly against his shoulder, forcing herself to hold on, to stay upright.

He clung to her neck with small, desperate arms, his breath warm against her collarbone. She pressed her face to his hair, and for a moment, she didn't care about the pain. She didn't care about the fire in her ribs or the dull tremor in her limbs.

He was real. He was here.

And she could breathe again—barely.

He leaned back, eyes wide with wonder. "You look so beautiful, Mama. Just like before."

Her throat tightened.

"I want to see you like this forever."

She swallowed hard, brushing a stray curl from his cheek. "Me too, my love."

"I missed you."

"I missed you more, my little star."

They stayed like that for a moment longer, heart to heart.

Then he noticed the basket she was holding. His brows furrowed in suspicion. "Wait. What's in the basket?"

She lifted it slightly, raising a brow. "Guess."

"Wait… are those the honey buns."

A laugh burst from her chest, unexpected and full. "Guess again."

Damian tilted his head dramatically, squinting like a detective. "Umm… double honey buns this time?"

"Ice cream?" one of the twins gasped behind him.

Damian spun around to see two children standing there, their eyes wide with excitement.

"Oh! Mama, meet my new friends," he said, pointing towards the twins.

"This is Calla," he said, pointing to the girl with her dark curls tied up in pigtails. "She's the fastest with the blocks. And that's Cain," he added, nodding toward the boy with a wild mop of hair and a mischievous grin. "He's really smart, but he likes to joke around with me."

Calla bounced on the balls of her feet, her voice high with excitement. "Hi! I'm Calla!"

Cain smiled brightly, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "I'm Cain!"

Calla's gaze darted to the basket in Elira's hands, her eyes gleaming. "Is that really ice cream?"

Cain leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the basket. "Is that for us?"

Damian's eyes shot back to Elira. "Is it really? Like the kind from the stores?"

She nodded, smiling, her heart catching at the wonder in his face.

"Six flavors," she said. "Your soon to be favorites."

His mouth dropped open. "You got ice cream?"

"With a little help," she admitted, glancing at Wexley.

Damian blinked as if he'd just been told the stars could be plucked from the sky. "We've never had ice cream before…"

Elira brushed her thumb gently across his cheek. "Then tonight, you will."

Chaos erupted.

Within seconds, they were all in the kitchen—Mara handing out spoons, Wexley setting bowls, the children hopping excitedly in place. Elira stood at the center, scooping and laughing and giving the kids strict but gentle warnings not to inhale the ice cream.

She looked down to see Damian leaning against her side, licking his spoon with exaggerated care. His head rested lightly against her arm.

"Mama, this tastes honeybun worthy!"

"Thank you mama."

"Don't thank me—thank Principal Wexley."

"Thank you, Principal Wexley," he said through a mouthful of ice cream.

Elira pinched his ear. "Manners!"

"Ouch! Mama, I'm sorry! Thank you, Principal Wexley."

"Better" she says releasing his ear.

The twins burst into giggles. Mara chuckled behind her spoon. Even Wexley let out a low laugh from the doorway, shaking his head.

Elira smiled, the sound of their laughter curling around her like a warm blanket.

Across the room, Wexley leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed but his gaze impossibly soft.

Mara stood beside him, watching.

She elbowed him gently. "You're so hopelessly in love with her."

He didn't look away. "I know."

"She's dying."

"I know."

"Are you scared?"

"Terrified."

"Planning on moving on?"

He turned to his sister, helpless. "I don't think I ever will."

She nodded slowly, her voice soft. "That's how you know it's real."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "You always did know how to ruin the mood."

"Somebody has to."

He looked back at Elira.

She was laughing now—real laughter—at something one of the twins had said. The sound wrapped around him like a promise he hadn't dared hope for.

In that kitchen, beneath the golden light and echoes of childhood joy, they looked almost like a family.

And for the briefest, most fragile moment, it felt like the world might allow them to keep it.

Wexley and Mara joined them at the table. Plates scraped gently, spoons clinked, and the children's chatter spilled into the corners of the room. Calla told a story with dramatic flair, Cain corrected every detail, and Elira, cheeks flushed from laughter and sugar, played the gentle judge between them.

Elira didn't expect to feel this kind of ease—not here, not now. A few hours ago, she'd called Mara a stranger. But now, as the woman teased Cain gently and wiped a smudge of chocolate from Damian's nose, Elira felt something soften inside her. A thread pulled tight and held.

She watched Wexley fold napkins into little birds for the twins, the way his shoulder brushed hers when they leaned over the table to clean up a spill—something had shifted. She wasn't ready to name it. But she felt it.

She looked at him—and smiled.

That's when she realized: maybe some people didn't need years to become part of your life.

Maybe sometimes it just took one golden hour.

She reached for her tea, but her hand trembled. She stilled it with her other. No one seemed to notice.

And across the table, Damian was quiet.

His spoon hovered halfway to his mouth. He wasn't looking at his food. Or the twins. Or even his mom.

He was looking at the hallway.

There was something there.

At first, he thought it was just a shadow. Maybe from the lamp or someone walking past. But it didn't move like a shadow.

It looked like… a boy.

A boy his size.

No—him. It looked like him.

Same hair. Same face. Same everything. But… different. The eyes weren't right. They looked empty. Or too full. He didn't know.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes hard, like Mama told him to when he stared at the stars too long.

It was still there.

His heart beat faster—but not in the scared way. It was like when you find something weird in the woods and can't stop staring. Like a secret just for you.

The boy-thing tilted its head.

Damian tilted his too, slowly.

Then it stopped—froze—and stared straight back.

Damian realized… it saw him. Really saw him. And it knew he could see it.

Its face changed. Just a little. Like it didn't expect that. Like it was surprised.

Then the thing looked at Elira.

And it started walking toward her.

"Mama—?"

But before he could say more, Elira made a strange sound—a gasp that cracked the air.

Everyone turned just as her bowl slipped from her hand and hit the floor.

"Mama?" Damian's voice shook.

She was coughing. Bad.

It wasn't like before. It was loud. Wet. Scary.

Red—blood—flew from her mouth, spraying the table. Her hands reached out, shaking, but then her knees buckled.

Wexley was already there, catching her before she hit the ground. "Elira—Elira, breathe. Just breathe—"

Her eyes found Damian's.

She looked afraid.

Then she looked at Wexley.

She tried to talk—but the coughing wouldn't stop. More blood came. Then her eyes closed.

"Mara—get the car!" Wexley yelled.

After that, everything became noise.

Coats. Shouting. Cold air.

Wexley carried Mama like she weighed nothing. Damian ran beside him, holding her hand.

They flew through the night like they were chasing time.

In the car, Damian sat beside her, holding on tight.

And he could see it.

The gold shimmer—the soft glow that always wrapped around her, like sunlight just under her skin—was fading.

Faster now.

It was leaking out of her like bathwater down a drain, and no matter how hard he held on, he couldn't stop it.

He didn't understand it. But he knew.

He knew it was bad.

He wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Just that awful sound of her trying to breathe.

Please… please don't go.

He bit down on his lip. Hard. It tasted like blood, but he didn't care.

He wanted to cry. But he didn't want her to see.

Because what if—what if she needed him to be brave right now?

"Stay, Mama," he whispered, forehead against her shoulder. "I'll be good. I'll listen. Just… don't go."

Then he looked up

It was still there.

The other him.

Sitting in the front seat, quiet, still. Watching.

Damian didn't speak. But his thoughts screamed.

Why do you look like me?

The boy didn't answer.

The car bumped over the road, headlights carving shaky paths through the dark.

Mama's chest kept rising, falling—faster and faster. Her hand felt… hollow. Like holding paper.

And that shimmer—her light—was barely there now.

She was supposed to read to him tonight.

She was supposed to complain about muddy socks and burnt tea.

She was supposed to remind him to brush his teeth twice.

She was supposed to live.

He couldn't remember if he had said "I love you" this morning.

Did she know?

Did she remember?

He pressed her hand to his cheek. "I'm sorry, Mama. Please. Please stay."

The other him still watched.

Silent.

Still.

Too close to her.

Too sure.

And suddenly Damian wanted to scream at it. Leave her alone. She's not yours.

But he didn't.

Because maybe it was too late.

"Damian," Wexley said gently, his voice barely above the engine hum. "You okay?"

No.

Damian's eyes stayed on the fading shimmer.

"I… I think I'm scared," he said, and his voice cracked in the middle. "But I'm also mad. I'm mad at her for wanting to leave me."

Wexley flinched. His knuckles went white on the wheel.

"You think she wants this?" His voice cracked. "She loves you. She's fighting for you. Don't say she's not."

Damian's lips trembled. "I didn't mean— I just— I don't want her to go. I didn't mean it, Mama, I swear. Please."

Wexley turned his face away. His voice broke. "She'll get through this. She's strong. She's the strongest person I know."

But Damian didn't believe it.

Not really.

The light was almost gone.

And when it disappeared completely—

What if that was it?

"What if she's not strong enough this time?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Wexley said, and it was the first honest thing either of them had said all night.

"Is there nothing we can do?" he said. "It shouldn't be this way."

"You are helping," Wexley replied. "You're right here. She knows."

"No, it's not enough!" Damian shouted. "She's not waking up! Make her stay! Tell her to open her eyes! Mama, please. It's your little star."

Damian stared at their joined hands.

His were too small. Too useless. But he held tighter anyway, like maybe he could keep her anchored. Like if he just held on hard enough, the light would stay.

But it didn't.

It kept slipping.

"She's just sleeping," he whispered. "They always say she needs more rest. That's all this is, right?"

The hospital lights came to view—they were too bright. Too white.

As they pulled into the emergency lane, nurses ran out, shouting.

Hands reached in.

"Wait—wait—don't take her—"

But they were already lifting her away.

Damian held on tight. "She's my mum!"

He couldn't let go. He couldn't.

Wexley scooped him up. "We're right behind her."

Her hand slipped from his fingers.

And something inside him slipped too.

He could still smell her on her scarf—tea leaves and chalk and soap—and it made him want to scream.

He tried to remember every birthday she gave him. Every time she danced silly in the kitchen. Every night she whispered promises into his hair when he was too scared to sleep.

He didn't understand. He just wanted to stay with her.

He watched her vanish through the doors.

His chest burned.

He couldn't breathe.

He kicked in Wexley's arms, wanting to run after her, needing to, but Wexley held him firm.

"She's going to get help now," he whispered. "She's going to be just fine."

"No! You're lying, you keep lying. She isn't getting any better. She's going to leave me," Damian said, hitting Wexley.

"I know you're scared, and it hurts—but we promised. We said we'd keep smiling. We agreed we'd be strong."

He wanted to scream but his voice was lost somewhere behind his teeth.

And then—

He saw it.

The other him.

Following.

Quiet.

Walking beside the gurney.

Like it belonged.

No one else saw it.

It didn't touch her.

Just stayed close.

Like it had been waiting.

Waiting for this.

Damian's fists curled. His stomach twisted.

He didn't understand what it was.

But he knew one thing.

It wasn't here for him.

It was here for her.

And it wasn't going to leave without her.