CHAPTER 2: Letters She’ll Never Read Back

Damian sat curled in a hard wooden chair outside the examination room, his legs pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them like a lifeline.

His fingers were cold. Everything was cold.

He hated this place. The way it smelled. The way no one spoke properly. The way grown-ups whispered like secrets were more important than truth.

Where was Mama?

Why wouldn't anyone just say it?

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. The nurse had stopped asking him questions once she realized he couldn't answer anything beyond "My mum fell." The all green walls pressed in on him. The whispers of other families, the rustle of papers, the dull clink of glass vials — they made the world feel like it had dropped several feet out of place.

It felt like something terrible had happened and no one had noticed. Like he was stuck in the wrong version of the world.

He missed his mum.

If he just closed his eyes, maybe he could smell her scarf again. Hear her laugh—soft and sudden like when he told a silly joke.

But all he could hear now was footsteps.

The door creaked open, and footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"Damian," came a low familiar voice.

He looked up.

Principal Wexley stood there. He wasn't wearing his usual pressed waistcoat. His overcoat was soaked through at the collar, and his tie was loose like someone had yanked at it. But his voice was calm.

"Sir?" Damian croaked.

He hadn't realized how much he needed someone — anyone — until he saw him. Even if it wasn't his mother. Even if it wasn't anyone close, it was something solid.

Wexley knelt beside him. "I came as soon as I could." He hesitated before placing a hand gently on Damian's shoulder. "You holding up alright?"

Damian nodded, but the movement felt strange. Like his neck wasn't sure what to do.

He didn't want to be brave. He didn't even want to talk.

He just wanted the hallway to rewind, like the old projectors in the schoolhouse. Back before the stage. Back before the cough.

Wexley sat beside him on the narrow bench. He didn't touch him. Didn't try to ask questions like the nurse had. He just… sat.

That helped a little. Not much. But a little.

Damian's voice was small. "Is she going to be okay?"

Wexley didn't answer right away. Just exhaled.

Damian hated that sound. That pause.

It always came before something bad.

"A doctor will come speak with us soon."

Damian looked away. That wasn't an answer.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to demand the truth like Mama would have—but the scream stayed stuck behind his teeth.

They waited together in silence. The quiet buzz of gas lamps overhead, the distant rattle of a cart being wheeled down another corridor, the cough of a man two rooms over — they all pressed against the boy's ears.

He tried to imagine the stage lights again. Her smile. The poem. But it all felt like paper soaked in water—sagging and fading.

Finally, a woman in a crisp coat stepped out from behind the curtain. Her face was tired.

"I need to speak to family of Miss Wells," she said.

Wexley stood. "There's no father. I'm the school principal, this is her son. You can speak to me. She doesn't have anyone else."

She nodded, hesitated, then gestured him a few paces away.

Damian watched Wexley lean in, his brow creasing as the doctor spoke in hushed tones.

Why are they whispering again?

He hated that. That meant it was about him. About her. And they were hiding it.

He couldn't catch the words exactly — they were long and sharp and sounded like something a villain might say in a storybook. Strange, heavy things like "calva…tion?" "pall— something." They made his stomach twist anyway.

Wexley's face went still.

Damian slid off the bench and walked over, catching the last of what the doctor was saying.

"She's stable for now, but it's serious. She has phthisis. Most people know it as consumption. She's had it for some time, judging by the level of progression."

Phthisis? That wasn't a real word. That sounded like a made-up monster from one of the books his mother reads to him. Not something you could have.

Wexley's face darkened. "How bad?"

The doctor exhaled. "It's advanced. Her left lung is nearly gone. We'll do what we can, but… she may not have long."

No.

"What is it? What's wrong with her?"

He glanced down at Damian, who was staring up at both of them.

"She's… she's gonna get better, right?"

Wexley looked at Damian in the eye. "Damian… listen carefully." His voice was gentle, but slower now, like he was choosing each word from a narrow path. "Your mother is very sick. She has something called phthisis. It's… an illness deep in her lungs. The doctors are helping her, but she's very weak."

Damian's brows furrowed. "She's always coughing. That's all. She just needs sleep. And her tea."

Why were they lying? Why was everyone lying?

"She's been hiding it, probably to protect you," Wexley said. "But it's serious. The kind of sick that doesn't go away with tea."

"No!" Damian said immediately, fists clenched. "You're lying.

"I know it's hard to hear—"

"She just needs rest! She always gets better. Always!"

Wexley reached a hand toward him. "Damian—"

"No!" He slapped it away. "You're just a bad man trying to make it worse. You're not even her friend!"

"I hate you!"

And then he was gone — feet pounding down the hallway, tears stinging his eyes, elbowing past nurses and attendants until he burst through the curtain to her room.

She lay there like a shadow of herself. The color had drained from her skin, lips pale and chapped. Her chest barely rising beneath the thin blanket. Her dark hair was clinging to her forehead, and her hands trembled even in sleep.

But it wasn't just that.

Damian could still see it.

The shimmer.

The gold he always saw—somewhere deep inside her—was barely there now. The grey was thicker. Like smoke swallowing the sun.

He stood frozen, staring.

"No…" His voice cracked.

He climbed up onto the bed beside her and grabbed her hand — it was cold, there was no response.

But he held it like it could change something. Like maybe if he squeezed hard enough, the shimmer would come back.

"Mama…"

She didn't answer.

He buried his face in her arm and sobbed—full-bodied, wordless cries that made his shoulders shake and his lungs ache.

He wanted to scream her name into her skin. Wake her. Beg her.

Don't leave me. Please. Not like this.

Behind him, Wexley stepped quietly into the room, pausing just inside the doorway. The man's expression was unreadable — not because he didn't feel, but because he didn't know what to do with it. So he just stood there.

Watching the boy break, letting him grieve.

Time passed and eventually, Damian's cries quieted. His breathing slowed. And then he drifted into a fitful sleep, resting on his mother's bedside.

Wexley crossed the room and gently adjusted Damian so he wouldn't slip. He looked at Elira, studied her face — the proud, kind teacher who used to bring in poppies from her windowsill and write Shakespearean quotes on the blackboard in perfect calligraphy.

Even now, pale and still, beneath hospital linen, she was beautiful. Not in the painted, powdered way that some women tried to be — but in the way sunlight caught the edge of a windowpane, or the way her voice softened when she read poetry aloud.

She had always been beautiful to him.

Wexley exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.

He'd tried — in the small, careful ways a man like him could. A longer glance in the staff room. Bringing her books she hadn't asked for. Offering a walk home after dark. She always smiled. Always thanked him. But never… invited more.

She kept him at a gentle distance. Like she was afraid of needing anyone.

He respected her for that. Admired her even more.

But tonight—he hated it.

He hated how close she was to slipping away without ever letting herself be held, even once. Without letting anyone shoulder the weight she carried alone.

And he hated how helpless he felt now.

Watching the woman he loved fall apart cell by cell, while all he could do was stand beside her and be still.

He stepped out briefly, fetched a change of clothes for both of them from a nearby store, and brought back food — a sandwich, an apple, a flask of warm broth that steamed faintly in the cold room.

When he returned to the room, Elira was awake.

Relief hit him like a wave.

She was alive.

Not just a still shape in a bed, not just silence and machines and unanswered prayers — but breathing, conscious, awake. His shoulders sagged, tension leaking from muscles he hadn't realized were locked.

She was silent, gaze fixed on her son's sleeping face. Her fingers, weak but still full of intent, stroked his dark curls. Tears ran down her cheeks, silent as snowfall.

He nearly stepped forward. Nearly said her name.

But something stopped him.

The sight of her — so raw, so exposed — felt sacred. And he didn't want to intrude. Not yet. Not on this.

So Wexley didn't say anything. Just stood there and let her have the moment.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rasp of Elira's breath and the distant creak of floorboards in the hall. He kept his hands tucked in his coat pockets, as if anchoring himself there would hold back the ache.

He wanted to go to her.

He wanted to touch her hand.

He wanted to tell her she scared the hell out of him.

And he remembered—

A winter afternoon in the staffroom, years ago.

Her fingers wrapped around a chipped teacup, steam curling around her lashes as she laughed — really laughed — at something he'd said. It had been the first time he thought, I could fall in love with her. And the last time she ever let him close enough to try.

Gods, Elira… why won't you let me be there with you?

Finally, she spoke—her voice hoarse and dry, barely above a whisper.

"You're still here."

Wexley blinked. "Of course I am."

She gave a fragile smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Didn't expect you to play nursemaid."

There it was — the wall again. A joke, an edge, something to deflect.

"I'm not," he said softly, stepping closer. "Just… someone who really wants to be here."

He hesitated for a moment. "For you."

She looked at him then — really looked.

And that look twisted something in him. He saw all of it — the exhaustion, the grief, the guilt. The quiet way she already believed the worst.

"I didn't tell him," she murmured. "I knew something was wrong. Months now. I just… I thought I had more time."

Wexley sat in the chair beside her bed. "You should've said something."

Her mouth tightened. "And what would you have done, Mr. Bennett? Hauled me to a hospital? Told the school board their beloved Miss Wells was coughing up blood in the staffroom sink?"

He clenched his jaw.

"I would've done something."

He didn't raise his voice. But it was there — the sting under the softness.

"You still could," she said bitterly. "Go ahead. Tell them. I'm sure they'll love the scandal."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tone sharp now. "Damn it, Elira. I don't give a damn about the board, the school or anyone else. What I do give a damn about is… you."

Silence.

Elira stared at him, startled.

Too much? Shouldn't have said it—

No.

She needed to hear it.

He let the words hang there. Then slowly straightened, smoothing a hand over his tie, suddenly too warm for the room.

"I've watched you drag yourself to that classroom every day," he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers. "Watched you burn yourself out taking care of that boy, pushing through without fail."

Her throat bobbed.

"You think I don't see you?" he murmured, voice low and steady, thick with something heavy and unsaid. "You think I haven't wanted to—" He stopped himself. Swallowed hard. "I see you, Elira. And I don't want to bury you.

Silence.

Then she laughed — soft and broken — and shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"You always were too noble for your own good."

"Maybe," he said, leaning in. "Or maybe I just never stopped being in love with a stubborn woman who never let me in."

The air snapped taut.

She froze. So did he.

And for a heartbeat — one small, suspended second — the world narrowed to nothing but the space between them.

She could feel his breath against her cheek.

Her heart wasn't beating right. It was too fast, too loud. Like it didn't know whether to break or leap.

His hand hovered near hers on the blanket, fingers trembling with the effort not to close the distance.

And Elira—

Elira wanted to.

She wanted to close the gap, wanted to lean forward and press her forehead to his, to finally say, I've been alone for too long and I don't know how to stop.

But grief clung to her ribs. Guilt dug its claws into her throat.

She didn't move. She couldn't. Not now.

Because if she let herself want this, and then lost it…

She wouldn't survive that.

He inhaled sharply, jaw tight, like he was bracing against his own impulse.

Don't. Don't ruin it. Don't scare her off.

She blinked, her eyes glossy, her lips parted like she might say something—

And then—

"Mama?!"

Both of them startled.

The moment shattered like glass on stone.

Damian had shot up from the bed, eyes wide and wild and shining. He scrambled toward her without hesitation, practically launching himself across the blankets.

"Mama! You're awake! You're awake!" His arms wrapped tight around her torso, his face burying into her side. "I was so scared. I thought—I thought—"

Elira flinched, but managed to pull him close, her trembling arms wrapping around him.

"Shh… shh, my love. I'm here. I'm alright."

"No, you're not!" he sobbed. "They said you're sick. They said awful things and I didn't believe them and I yelled at him—" He paused, turned to Wexley over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bennett."

Wexley blinked, suddenly caught in the boy's gaze, then gave a small nod.

"No harm done, champ."

He stepped back toward the chair, placed the neatly folded clothes and the paper-wrapped sandwich on the bedside table.

"There's broth too," he said, quieter now. "I'll be back later."

Elira looked up at him, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.

"Wexley—" she began.

He paused in the doorway.

The silence between them said more than either could.

Then he walked away.

The door clicked shut behind Wexley.

Elira didn't move.

Not at first.

She just sat there, Damian's small body curled against her side, his arms like iron bands around her ribs. Her hand trembled as she raised it, fingers hovering above his curls before finally resting atop his head.

He was here. Warm. Real. Still hers—for now.

"Damian," she said, so softly he almost didn't hear it.

He sniffled but didn't lift his head. "Mhm?"

"I need to talk to you. Will you listen?"

He nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

She shifted, gently guiding him to sit upright so she could see his face—really see it. Her hands found his cheeks, cupping them as though they were the most fragile thing she'd ever held. And maybe they were.

His eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, his nose running, his bottom lip chewed raw from nerves. She brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, smoothing away the tears even as her own welled again.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.

Their breath mingled in the space between. It was Quiet, and Intimate.

Then she kissed him—once, twice, over and over—his brow, his cheeks, his nose, his chin. She peppered his face with kisses like she was trying to memorize it through touch. Like love could be carved into skin.

He wriggled with a little whimper of protest, but he was smiling. "Mama," he said through a hiccup, "you're getting kiss juice all over my face."

She laughed—a broken, watery thing—and pulled him closer.

"Oh no," she gasped, mock serious, "not kiss juice!"

"You have to *dab it off*! It's gonna soak through!"

She sniffled, smiling through her tears. "Well, you'll just have to wear it. It's my favorite cologne."

He giggled, but then looked up, blinking slowly. The smile faded.

"You're crying again."

She tried to look away, but his tiny hand caught her cheek.

"Don't cry, Mama," he said. "I'll protect you. I'll make soup. I'll bring the stars down if you want." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just please be okay."

The tears broke free all over again.

She kissed him—harder this time—and wrapped him in her arms like she could hide him from the truth, like maybe if she held him tightly enough, she could anchor herself a little longer.

"My little star," she whispered. "My darling. My heart. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"For what?" he asked, voice shaking.

Elira shut her eyes. Say it. He deserves the truth.

But how do you tell your child that your body is betraying you? That time is running out? That no matter how much love you pour into him, it won't be enough to stay?

She took a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

"I'm sick, Damian," she whispered. "Really sick."

He frowned. "I know. But you'll get better. You always do."

She shook her head slowly. "Not this time, love."

The words were knives in her mouth.

"I've been… hiding it from you. Because I didn't want you to worry. But I can't pretend anymore. My body is tired. And it's not getting stronger. It's… it's failing."

He stared at her like the world had tilted beneath him. "You're not… dying," he said, voice cracking on the last word.

She nodded, swallowing thickly. "I wish I weren't. I wish I could stay and watch you grow and see all the wonders you'll make. But the truth is…" She pressed her lips to his forehead. "I don't have much time left, my star."

Damian didn't speak.

For a moment, she thought maybe he hadn't understood.

But then the sob tore from his throat—small and sharp, like something had been ripped out from inside him.

"No," he whispered. "No. You can't."

She cradled him as he began to shake, his tears hot against her neck. "You can't leave me. You can't."

"I don't want to," she choked. "I would give anything—anything—to stay."

"Then stay!" he begged. "I'll be good! I'll do chores! I'll make your tea every morning! I'll never cry again! Just… just don't go."

He broke apart in her arms, trembling, tiny sobs punching their way out of his chest.

Elira rocked him, holding him so tightly she feared she might crush him. But he clung to her just as hard, fingers knotted in her dress, face buried against her collarbone.

They wept together, there in that quiet room, the stars outside blinking down on a little boy and his mother—each trying to find a way to freeze time with nothing but love.

They both fell asleep like that, curled into each other. Elira's hand tangled in Damian's hair, his small body pressed tight against hers like he could anchor her in place just by being there.

But sometime deep in the night, Damian woke.

He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, confused at where he was. The hallway light bled faintly through the crack in the door, painting the room in tired gold. Then he remembered—Mama. He turned.

Now that he was looking—really looking—he saw how pale she was. The way her skin had lost its color. The way her lips were chapped and dry. The little lines etched into the corners of her mouth. She looked so small now. And there was something about the way her hand lay limp on the blanket—it scared him.

He didn't move. Just lay there, breathing in the quiet, his hand resting lightly on her chest—counting each rise and fall like it was the most important thing in the world.

One… two… three… one… two… three… She's still here. Still breathing.

He let that comfort him—for now.

Her face was tilted toward him, strands of hair tangled on the pillow. She looked… tired. So tired.

His throat ached. He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her.

That's when he noticed the figure in the chair.

The principal. Mr. Bennett

He was sitting in the corner chair, right where he'd left earlier. Only now he looked… different. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His long coat was wrinkled, his hat clutched in both hands—fingers gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Just… watching Mama. Watching like he was trying to memorize her.

At first Damian thought he was asleep. But then he breathed in—shaky and uneven—and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Damian stilled. He could hear it now. Soft, rough sounds. A breath hitching. A stifled sob.

The principal was crying.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Like a man who didn't know how to grieve, so he did it quietly, as if the grief had to apologize for existing at all.

He had never seen a grown man cry before. Not like this. He had only ever seen his mother cry.

Damian stood, his feet cold against the wooden floor. He padded over to the chair, unsure what to say.

Then he just… reached out and placed a hand on the principal's arm.

The man startled. His head jerked up and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, clearing his throat like he'd just remembered he was supposed to be strong.

"Damian," he said softly, voice cracking anyway. "Didn't mean to wake you. I was just—"

He wiped his eyes again, turning away.

But Damian didn't let go.

Instead, he did what his mama always did when he cried.

He hugged him.

Just wrapped his arms around the man's middle and pressed his face into his coat, like that could somehow make the hurt go away, make it easier on them both.

The principal didn't move at first, breath caught in his throat. Then, slowly—hesitantly—one arm came around Damian's back. Then the other. And he pulled the boy into his lap like something precious he wasn't sure he deserved to hold.

They sat like that, just holding each other. The silence thick and full of things they weren't saying.

Damian didn't know why he hugged him. He couldn't explain it. He just… did.

Maybe it was the look in the man's eyes. Or the way he'd looked at Mama, like something inside him was breaking. Maybe it was just that—for once—the adult was the one who didn't know what to do.

"I know she's dying," he whispered into the man's coat.

The words felt too big for his mouth. They hurt coming out—like saying them made them more real.

"I know I'm gonna lose her."

The principal's arms tightened around him.

A few tears slipped down Damian's cheeks, warm and silent. He didn't wipe them away.

"I don't want her to go," he said. "She's my whole world."

He sniffled, curling tighter.

"I keep thinking… maybe if I just stay really close and hold her tight, she won't go. Like maybe… maybe she'll forget to leave."

He paused.

"But that's not how it works, right?"

He sat up a little, wiping his nose with his sleeve. His voice was shaky, but steadier than before.

"She's still here. She's right there. And I think… I think she wouldn't want me crying all the time. She always says she loves my laugh the most," he whispered, like he could almost hear her saying it now.

He glanced toward the bed.

"So I'm gonna try to be brave now. Even if it's really, really hard."

His lip wobbled, but he straightened his spine.

"I think… I think I wanna make her happy. While I still can."

There was a beat of silence. Then the principal let out a breath—part laugh, part sob—and nodded.

"I can see why she's so proud of you," he said, voice hoarse. "You've got more courage than half the grown men I know."

He looked like he might cry again—but this time, he didn't turn away.

They sat like that, holding each other, grief and love for the woman in the bed heavy between them.

Elira had woken the moment Damian got up. She hadn't moved. Just watched.

She had heard everything.

And though her heart cracked wide open with grief—though every word struck her like a blade.

She was proud.

So proud it hurt.

She didn't have the strength to hold them. But she held them in her heart, tight as breath.

My little star, she thought, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

And then sleep pulled her under once more, quiet and full of love.

Elira had woken to the sound of rustling. Damian was getting ready for school. Wexley had taken it upon himself to drop him off since she wasn't in a state to do so. She watched silently as he got ready.

"Damian" she called.

"Mama, I didn't mean to wake you."

"So you were going to leave without giving me a goodbye kiss."

"I'm sorry, Mama. You just looked so tired," he said, glancing at her sunken eyes—at the golden shimmer that had almost completely faded.

 His eyes teared up but he refused to let them fall. He had promised he'd only face her with a smile from now on.

She smiled, lifting a pale hand to touch his face. "Thank you for being so brave, my little star. Did you have your honey buns?"

"You're welcome mama. You be brave as well."

Damian pressed a kiss to her forehead as she replied. "I will."

Now he's the one kissing my forehead, she thought, and something in her heart both soared and broke.

"I'll see you later, Mama. I love you."

Her throat tightened. "I love you more. Have a lovely day." The words caught at the edge of her breath, soft and trembling, like they knew this was one of the last times she'd say them.

Wexley watched their interaction from the door.

And then they were gone.

She sank into the pillow, still feeling the warmth of his kiss on her forehead. Her breath left her slow and thin, her chest aching—not from the ever-present disease, but from love.

She remembered his words from the night before. The way his voice trembled,

She's still here. She's right there.

She always says she loves my laugh the most. So I'm gonna try to be brave now. Even if it's really, really hard."

Elira pressed her hand to her chest and closed her eyes.

My brave little star, she thought. It was a selfish thought but she was glad he no longer cried in front of her. She couldn't bear it.

She could feel it—how close the end was now. Her body felt hollow, light as paper, heavy as stone. She knew she didn't have much time left.

And so, when sleep came for her again, soft and slow, she let it take her. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to.

Morning stretched on in quiet pieces. The room felt too still without him.

When she woke again, the hospital room smelled faintly of lavender, a scent Elira had requested from the nurses to mask the sterility of the ward.

A soft knock came.

She stirred. She'd been half-asleep again, floating in that strange space between dreams and the dim light of her room. Blinking slowly, she turned toward the door as the nurse stepped in.

The coughing had left her spent, her chest aching with every breath.

"Miss Wells," the nurse said quietly, "you have visitors."

Elira blinked, puzzled. She wasn't expecting anyone.

Before the nurse could explain, familiar faces peeked around the door.

"Miss Elira, it's us!" said Martha, grinning.

It was her students.

Elira's breath caught. Her fingers trembled slightly on the blanket. She hadn't expected them to come. After all, she'd asked Wexley to help her send a letter to the school—just a brief, formal note saying she'd be away for a while. She thought that would be the end of it. She hadn't wanted them to worry.

"How… how did you know I was here?" she asked softly, voice raspy.

The children glanced at each other. Edgar shifted nervously, his eyes already wet.

"Well," Martha began, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, "we noticed the substitute, and we asked her where you were, but she wouldn't tell us."

"She was really mean about it," Lucy added with a pout.

"So we… we waited outside after school and asked Principal Wexley," Edgar confessed in a rush. "He said you were in the hospital. We thought maybe you'd want some company."

Elira pressed a hand to her chest, overwhelmed by the swell of emotion. Her throat felt tight, but she forced a smile.

"Of course I want your company. Come here, all of you."

The children flooded into the room, crowding around her, their small hands brushing against her blanket, their faces full of worry and love.

The moment they saw her, they froze.

She looked so frail. So different from the Miss Elira they knew in class.

Edgar's voice trembled. "Miss Elira... why didn't you tell us?"

"Oh, Edgar. Come here." she whispered, pulling him into a gentle hug. "I didn't want to worry you. I didn't want to scare you."

The others crowded close, tears glimmering in their eyes. Elira opened her arms, and they huddled into her, their warmth softening the sterile cold of the hospital room.

"I don't want you to cry over me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want you to remember me with a smile. Can you do that?"

They nodded, their faces damp but determined.

"Now," she added with a small, playful smile, "what's been happening at school?"

The mood lightened instantly.

Voices overlapped as they shared stories—crushes, fights, teachers they didn't like, secrets whispered like confessions. Elira listened, her laughter faint but real, and for a little while, it was as if they were back in her classroom, safe and warm.

In those moments, they still saw her—not the frail woman in bed, but the teacher who made school feel safe, even fun. The one who made them feel seen.

And yet, they knew. They could feel it in their bones.

This would be the last time they'd hear her voice. The last time she'd smile at them.

"Oh! You guys—we forgot!" Lucy suddenly cried.

"Forgot what?" Elira asked, amused.

The children stood, fumbling with their schoolbags. They produced a colorful card—covered in glitter and messy handwriting—and a small pack of honey buns.

"We brought this for you, Miss Elira," said Martha. "To say thank you... for everything."

"You made us look forward to school," said another. "Because we got to spend time with you."

"We hope you keep smiling—even when you're gone," whispered a third.

Then, in unison, they said: "We love you, Miss Elira!"

Tears welled in Elira's eyes. She pulled them all in for a big group hug, letting the warmth of their small arms wrap around her.

Someone suggested she read Romeo and Juliet one last time.

And so she did.

JULIET:

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROMEO:(aside)

Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET:

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

ROMEO:

I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

They knelt by her bedside, held her hand, hugged her gently as she read. Some cried in silence. Others whispered their thank-yous like prayers.

Elira stayed composed. Her eyes shimmered, but her voice was steady. She wanted them to leave with the best of her—the teacher they remembered, not the one in the hospital bed

Eventually, they said goodbye—one by one. Hugs. Kisses. Soft goodnights.

And then they were gone.

The door shut behind them with a soft click. The room fell quiet.

The laughter still lingered in the air—but it thinned quickly. Without them, the space felt colder, larger. Lonelier.

Elira let her head fall back against the pillow. Her shoulders trembled.

The cough came swiftly, deep and raw, painting her handkerchief crimson. She pressed it to her lips and stared at the dark blotches blooming on white fabric.

And yet... despite the pain, her heart felt impossibly full.

They remembered. They still loved her.

She exhaled, long and slow, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns.

The curtains dimmed the afternoon light. The warmth had faded.

And time—time, she knew, was slipping.

Her gaze dropped to her hands. "I have to write it now," she whispered.

Then—another knock.

Not like the students'. This one was lighter. Practiced.

She turned toward the door.

Dr. Amara entered, younger than most doctors in the wing. Behind her, a nurse, Corin who had cared for Elira since the beginning followed silently.

"Miss Wells," Amara said gently. "Just a quick check-in. May I?"

Elira nodded faintly, trying to sit up, but Corin was already there—adjusting pillows, smoothing blankets.

"How are you feeling?" Amara asked, pressing a stethoscope to her chest.

Elira exhaled slowly. Her voice was a rasp. "Like my lungs are on fire. It's getting harder to breathe."

Amara nodded, unsurprised. "Any blood this morning?"

"A little," she lied.

Her fingers twitched in her lap. The handkerchief beneath them was still damp with red, folded carefully to hide the worst of it.

"She's been coughing more," Corin added. "Mostly when no one's looking."

"Is that so?" Amara arched a brow. "You hiding from us now?"

"Only the ugly parts."

The doctor's expression softened. "There are no ugly parts. But I do need the truth. Are you in more pain than usual?"

Elira hesitated, then pointed to the waste bin. "Yes. There was a lot of blood."

Corin moved quietly to dispose of it.

"Thank you for being honest," Amara said. "It's expected. You're in the final stages."

Elira didn't reply right away. Her gaze wandered to the dusty window.

"Is there anything you can give me for the pain?" she asked quietly.

"I take it it's worse than before?"

Elira gave a faint nod.

"We'll increase your dose," Amara said gently. "It won't take it away, but it will ease it. Help your lungs rest."

"I'm not asking for a cure," Elira said. "Just… mercy."

Corin stepped forward with a cup of water and two pills. Elira took them without protest, her hands trembling faintly.

"You're allowed to be tired," Corin whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm not tired, Corin" Elira murmured. "Just… very aware."

Amara made a note in the chart. "Will you be expecting visitors later?"

Elira shook her head. "None I'm aware of."

"Well," Amara said, "call us if anything worsens. No more pretending, alright?"

Elira nodded, slow and graceful. "Alright."

As Amara and Corin turned to go, she called out softly:

"Could I have some paper? And a pen?"

Corin paused, nodded, and returned a moment later with a small stack and a bottle of ink.

They left the room.

Elira was alone again.

She stared down at the blank page, fingers trembling.

There was so much to say.

And so little time to say it.

The paper trembled faintly in her hands.

Elira stared at the blank page for a long time, the ink bottle uncorked beside her, the nib of the pen dry and waiting. She wasn't sure where to begin. Her thoughts came like waves—grief and love, regret and hope—all rushing to the shore at once.

She dipped the pen.

Then slowly, deliberately, she began to write.

To my brightest star,

If you're reading this, it means the world has already become a little quieter—and my voice is only in your memory now. But I hope you still hear it when you need it most. I hope it echoes through your laughter, your stories, and the songs you hum to yourself when you think no one's listening.

Her hand paused. The ink glistened.

You are my joy. My brightest light. The reason I keep choosing morning, even when it hurt to breathe. You made the world feel beautiful again, even as mine was slowly dimming.

There are some things I want you to remember—things more important than any lesson I ever taught you in class or at home.

First: You are not too much. Your thoughts, your questions, your wild dreams—they are gifts, not burdens. Never let the world convince you otherwise.

Second: Be kind. Fiercely, stubbornly, relentlessly kind. It will cost you sometimes. But kindness has a way of making even the cruelest winters feel like spring.

Third: There is no shame in crying. No weakness in fear. And no strength greater than love.

Her breath caught.

She pressed her fist gently against her chest, trying to ease the tightness there. Another cough wanted to rise, but she forced it down.

One day, you'll meet people who'll try to define your worth by your silence, or your obedience, or your usefulness. Laugh gently—and walk away. Your worth is not up for debate.

And finally, my sweet boy—

She blinked away the film in her eyes.

—never forget that you were loved completely. Without condition. Without pause. In the quiet hours. In the loud ones. In every moment between my hello and my goodbye.

Her hand slowed.

If you ever find yourself looking up at the stars, wondering if I can still see you—the answer is yes. I always will. Especially when you're smiling.

Forever yours,

My Little Star

When she finished, she exhaled slowly, tears trailing down her cheeks. Her chest rattled with effort, but she didn't call for help.

Instead, she folded the letter carefully, pressing the creases smooth with trembling fingers. She reached for the ribbon on the nightstand and tied it shut.

There were more letters to write. Some shorter. Some harder.

But this first one—this one was her heart.

And now it was on paper, preserved for the boy she would not get to watch grow up.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting her head rest against the pillow. The lavender in the air reminded her of mornings at home, of tea steeping too long and Damian's voice calling her back from daydreams.

There was pain. But also peace.

And when she opened her eyes again, she reached for a new page.

The next one she began wasn't one of philosophy or life advice—but of food.

"My little star," she wrote, "If you ever forget how to make your favorite meals, this letter is here to remind you."

She listed each dish carefully: the honey buns with their cinnamon glaze, the savory beet stew he loved on cold days, the spiced milk she made when he couldn't sleep. She explained how to fold the dough, how long to boil the beets, which spices to add at the very end because she knew he liked that extra warmth. She drew little stars beside her instructions, reminders to "taste as you go" and "add more honey if you're having a hard day."

The writing calmed her. For a while, the pain in her chest dulled. She paused only to sip water, to steady her hand, then moved on.

Letter after letter.

"If you are ever scared…"

"If you lose someone you love…"

"If you don't know what to do with your anger…"

Each was sealed with wax and a star drawn in the corner—just like the ones he used to trace beside her lesson plans when he was small.

Time passed slowly.

Eventually, only one letter remained unwritten. She sat still for a long moment before beginning, pen poised over fresh parchment.

Her hand moved with deliberate care.

"If you are reading this and in love…I wish I had more wisdom for you. Love is a strange thing. The truth is—I used to wonder what it felt like—the kind that makes the world tilt, the kind poets ache over…"

Her pen hovered. Something ached in her…