CHAPTER 4: After The Last Goodbye

CHAPTER 4: After The Last Goodbye

It wasn't here for him.

It was here for her.

And it wasn't going to leave without her.

The hospital waiting room smelled faintly of bleach and old wood. The flickering gas lamp above them cast a pool of dim light on the checkered floor, and Wexley counted the flickers once. Then twice. Lost track the third time.

Damian sat beside him, legs too short for the wooden bench, heels tapping against the chair's legs in an uneven rhythm. He hadn't said a word in twenty minutes. His small hands twisted in his lap, knuckles white. Every time a door creaked open, his head jerked up, eyes wide, shoulders tense with the hope he didn't dare voice.

Wexley breathed in deeply and let the air out through his nose, slow. He forced his hands to stay still in his lap, even as they itched to move—into fists, into prayer, into something. He couldn't let Damian see him unravel. Not now.

They hadn't heard any news.

The front door opened with a gust of cold wind—and suddenly, the world returned. Damian heard the scuff of boots on tile, the squeal of wheels, the hiss of a nurse's breath as she muttered about a bedpan. A man cursed about missing the last tram. Somewhere, a baby wailed. The hallway was alive. The city outside buzzed even louder, alive with cars and carriages rushing past. 

People were heading home to their families. Shops were closing. Through the windows, people laughed over dinner and leaned in for kisses goodnight.

Damian hated it. That people could still laugh. That they could sit in warm rooms and hold hands and finish dessert like nothing was wrong. Like the world hadn't just ended.

Mara stepped inside first, wrapped in her coat, cheeks flushed from the night air. Behind her were Calla and Cain, still in their nightclothes, their faces covered in ice cream.

The moment Mara saw them—really saw Damian and Wexley—her face changed.

She didn't say a word.

She just came straight over and crouched the moment she reached Damian, pulling him into her arms. "Oh, sweetheart…"

He didn't move at first. Then his head dropped, and he let her hold him.

Damian blinked the tears away.

His chest hurt.

He was grateful she didn't ask him the usual how are you or tell him it'll be okay.

He didn't want to hear the words.

Mara excused herself to quickly clean up the twins. When she returned, the door groaned again. Wexley and Damian instinctively turned toward the sound—but it wasn't the one they were waiting for. 

Calla clung to one of her hands, Cain to the other. Their mouths were wiped clean and the girl's pink ribbon had been retied in her braid. Cain's coat had been straightened out.

Wexley stood, but Mara shook her head softly—no need. She guided the children over to the bench to sit beside Damian without a word. Calla plopped down on one side of him, Cain on the other.

Mara draped her coat over Damian. It was too large over his shoulders and it smelled faintly of vanilla and pine. A small form of comfort for him.

No one spoke. The silence was shared, not awkward. Damian's breathing slowed, just a little. His leg still bounced, but his shoulders eased a fraction. He leaned a bit toward Calla without realizing.

Wexley sat again. Rubbed a hand down his face. Mara shifted, just enough that her shoulder touched his. The warmth of that small contact pulled something tight in his chest.

He stared at the closed door. The only one that mattered. The one that still hadn't opened.

Please, he thought. Just once. Let there be a miracle left in this world.

The tick of the wall clock grew louder. Damian's heel tapped again. Cain's button clicked. The gas lamp flickered once more, casting a stuttering shadow across the polished floor.

Then—

A door creaked open.

Dr. Amara stepped through, her face pale under the lanternlight. Her coat was buttoned all the way to the top, her gloves still on. She looked older than before. Or maybe just more tired.

She didn't smile. She didn't speak.

She looked directly at Wexley.

"We've done all we can. If you have anything left to say, now is the time."

Her eyes flicked downward. To Damian. Her voice softened, almost crumbling under its own weight.

"I'm sorry."

Silence bloomed. Heavy. Full of breath no one dared take.

Mara's hand tightened slightly on Wexley's arm. Calla leaned in toward Damian, unsure. Cain blinked up at the doctor, his thumb pausing on the button he'd been fiddling with.

All eyes turned to the boy.

Waiting.

Expecting him to crack. To crumble. To cry.

But Damian just let out a shaky breath.

Then he slid off the bench. Mara's coat slipped from his shoulders, puddling at his feet.

He didn't look at anyone. Didn't say a word.

He just walked—quiet, steady—toward the door at the end of the hall.

The hallway was long, but Damian didn't feel his steps. Just the way the light buzzed above his head. Just the sound of his own breath, too loud in his ears.

He pushed the door open.

And the room was quiet.

The other him was nowhere to be found.

Just gray.

The golden shimmer—his mother's light—was almost gone now.

She was lying propped up slightly on the bed, her frame fragile against the white sheets. The moment her eyes met his, she smiled.

Not with sadness.

But with peace.

"Come here, sweetheart," she whispered.

He didn't speak. He climbed into the bed, tucking himself gently beside her.

She wrapped her arms around him just as she always did.

And he let her.

He rested his head on her chest, just over her heartbeat—still there, but slower. Softer.

They stayed like that. No words. Just breathing.

Just the warmth of skin. Just the weight of love wrapped around them.

The door creaked open behind them.

Wexley's footsteps hesitated on the threshold. Mara followed behind him, one hand guiding Calla, the other resting on Cain's shoulder.

Elira smiled, weakly.

Wexley stepped forward and helped her sit up, propping her gently against her pillow. She winced but didn't complain.

Damian moved to sit up too, but Elira's hand caught his.

"Stay," she said softly.

He did. Nestled closer into her side, his face half-hidden by her arm.

He didn't look at the others. Didn't speak. His silence spoke for him.

Wexley swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, then again. He didn't know where to put his hands. He just stood there, helpless.

"I have letters," Elira said, voice a breath above silence.

Wexley stepped forward, and she nodded toward the drawer at her bedside. He opened it.

Inside was a stack of envelopes. Dozens of them. Dozens and dozens.

All addressed in the same delicate hand.

The top letter bore his name.

The rest—

Were for Damian.

Years of letters.

Years of her voice saved in ink.

For birthdays. For heartbreaks. For the day he fell in love. For the day he didn't. For the days he wanted to give up. For the days he felt strong. For the days she wouldn't be there.

He stared down at them, then looked at her.

She smiled at him. Brightly. Without a trace of tears.

He broke.

He looked away, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes.

She turned to Mara.

"Thank you," she said softly, "for making me feel like I was part of a family. Even if it was just for a little while."

Mara's mouth twisted. "You are family," she choked out, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I wish—I wish I met you earlier."

Elira just smiled again. A quiet, knowing smile.

No need for more words.

Then she looked at Calla and Cain and lifted her hand, beckoning them forward.

They climbed onto the bed carefully, one on either side.

She looked at them as if committing every detail to memory.

"You're lovely children," she said. "And I hope you'll take care of Damian for me."

Calla blinked fast, biting her lip. Then nodded.

"Of course, Aunty. He's my very best friend. We'll play with my dolls everyday," she whispered.

Cain leaned forward. "I'll make sure he eats. Even if he says he's not hungry."

A laugh pushed through Elira's nose—barely there, but real.

She looked at them all. One by one.

Then finally back to Mara.

"Could I have a moment?" she asked gently. "Just with my son."

No one moved at first.

Then Mara stood and took Calla's hand. Wexley lifted Cain into his arms. They walked out in silence.

Elira turned her head toward the door, waiting until it clicked shut.

Then she looked down at Damian.

He hadn't moved.

His little body was tense, too still.

The color was gone now. All of it. Her light had faded into gray.

And yet—she still held him, arms shaking from the effort but firm.

"Damian," she whispered.

He didn't speak. His lip quivered, but no sound came.

"I need you to listen, little star." She took a trembling breath. "When you wake up tomorrow, I won't be here."

Still, no words from him.

Just a barely-perceptible shake of his head.

She stroked his hair, her fingers brushing gently over his curls.

"You don't have to be brave. Not for anyone. But I want you to know, you were the best thing in my whole life. Every moment."

A tear slid down Damian's cheek, but he didn't wipe it away.

He still didn't look at her.

"Those letters, they're yours now," she murmured. "Open them when you need me. I'll always be in them. I promise."

Her breath hitched. Her voice was growing faint.

The world was going quiet again.

Elira leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"I love you, my bright little star," she breathed.

Elira's breath fluttered against his ear as she held him close. Damian wrapped his arms around her neck, burying himself in the crook of her shoulder.

She adjusted slightly, and together they shifted—until they were lying side by side, arms wrapped around each other. A cocoon of warmth. A shared heartbeat.

Silence. For a moment, the world was still.

Then the air thinned.

A shadow peeled away from the wall across the room.

Two figures emerged.

One was tall. Her hair fell in waves—half silver, half black—and her skin shimmered like moonstone. She was breathtakingly beautiful. No crown. No scythe.

And yet, everything about her felt final.

Damian recognized the figure behind her—the same one that always hovered near Elira.

The one that looked like him.

Their voices cracked into the room in a language Damian couldn't understand.

It wasn't even sound—more like distortion. Broken violin strings screeching through an old radio, stitched together with warped echoes and the grinding of gears. It hurt to hear.

Damian blinked hard, staring at the other him.

"…You're back," he whispered.

The two paused. The tall woman turned toward him curiously.

"I know what you want," Damian said louder, clutching Elira tighter.

"You want to take her. But I won't let you."

The other him didn't move. His face—Damian's face—remained unreadable.

Then the woman turned. Her voice rippled toward him—still broken, still cursed, but clearer now.

"Hmm, Enai vethan, Ƈɛʀɛŋ?" 

Hmm, so this is the boy, Ceren?

"Velo, athira," Ƈɛʀɛŋ replied, lowering his head.

Yes, my lady

Something shifted.

She stepped forward—and as her foot touched the floor, the flower in the vase beside Elira began to wither.

Slowly.

First the stem curved. Then the leaves curled inward. Petals browned at the edges, one by one.

The clock froze mid-tick.

A teardrop hovering from Elira's eye paused midair.

The world held its breath.

She stood before him. Then, she spoke—this time in words he understood.

"Damian."

He flinched.

"How do you know my name?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"I am known by many names," she said.

"Some call me the Counterbalance. The meaning behind life. The Queen of Endings. I am Death—as the cosmos requires me to be."

"You're here for my mama, aren't you? I don't want her to go. You can't have her," he whispered.

"Interesting," she said. "Time has frozen, yet you move as though it hasn't. You shouldn't be able to perceive our presence."

Ƈɛʀɛŋ shifted beside her, silent. Watching.

Death lifted her hand, just slightly.

"And yet, here you are."

Her fingers reached for Elira.

"No!"

Damian threw himself over his mother's body, shielding her with his arms. He struck Death's hand away.

The sound that followed cracked through reality like thunder shattering glass.

Far beyond that hospital room, in the space between all things, the Moirai stirred.

A silence broke at the edge of time.

They turned their heads.

Threads that had lain still for eons began to tremble.

Two threads—two destinies—began to wind toward each other.

A choice. A defiance. A mortal. A god.

Clotho's eyes widened with glee.

"Sisters," she whispered.

Lachesis and Atropos joined her.

And they began to weave.

It has begun.

Back in the stillness, Death's hand stopped midair.

"This is… not possible," she murmured.

"I won't let you take her,"Damian said, breath ragged. "Whoever you are—whatever you are—I don't care. She's my mama. You can't have her."

Ƈɛʀɛŋ stepped forward, but Death raised her hand to stop him.

Then, gently, she knelt.

"You don't know what I am, and still you defy me," she said softly. "Tell me, child—what do you think I've come to do?

Damian trembled.

"You've come to take."

"I come to free. I'm only here to help."

"She doesn't need your kind of help," he whispered.

"She just needs more time."

"She has no time left."

"Then… can you give her mine?"

His hands tightened around Elira's sleeve.

"She is in pain, Damian. More than you know. She carries it for you. Smiles through it for you. But I see what she hides. I feel it."

"She doesn't want to go. She doesn't want to leave me."

"No," Death said. Her voice softened. "But she doesn't want you to watch her like this either. Every breath now is borrowed agony. Her thread is fraying."

Something in him broke.

"She loves you more than the world itself," Death said, gently.

"So much that she stayed too long."

"Are you taking her to heaven?" Damian asked, voice small as a breath.

"In a way. It's more complicated than that, she said, a soft smile touching her lips.

"Will she be alone?"

"No. Ƈɛʀɛŋ will guide her."

Damian looked at Ƈɛʀɛŋ—his lookalike.

The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"Why does he look like me?"

Death smiled.

"Ƈɛʀɛŋ is what you might call a reaper."

"What's a reaper?"

Ƈɛʀɛŋ shifted again, as if to intervene, but Death lifted her hand.

"Selan," she murmured.

It's fine.

Then she turned to Damian.

"Reapers are born from my essence. They're shapeshifters, tuned to the peace of the dying. They take the form most comforting to the soul—sometimes that could be a loved one, a pet, a dream, even a memory."

"They don't take life. They carry it. He looks like you because… you are Elira's greatest comfort."

Damian looked back at his mother.

"Will you be taking her now?"

Death inclined her head.

He closed his eyes.

And then… nodded.

Death stepped forward again.

This time, Damian did not stop her.

She whispered something in a voice older than stars—a tongue not meant for mortals. This was the voice of endings.

She spoke Elira's true name—the only one the universe had known, the name stitched into the fates, the name that unlocks her soul.

Elira drew in a breath—a soft, fragile gasp—and let it go.

Her chest rose. Then fell. And did not rise again.

Light bloomed from her chest. Soft. Gold.

The gold he hadn't seen in so long.

The gold he remembered.

It shimmered—rising, curling—and drifted toward Damian.

The warmth of it brushed against his skin, then pressed to his forehead.

Warm. Gentle. Like a kiss.

And then, as Ƈɛʀɛŋ reached forward, the light curling around him, Damian pressed his hand to her chest.

"I love you too, Mama. Your little star loves you."

The room was utterly silent.

The two figures had left—taking what he believed was his mother's soul.

And time began to move again. The petals of the flower finally fell, and the tears on his mother's cheeks finally slid down.

Damian didn't cry.

He didn't scream.

He simply curled into her body—small, quiet, as if he could sink into the spaces where her heartbeat used to be. His arms wrapped around her, cheek pressed to her chest.

She was no longer as warm as he remembered. She didn't wrap her arms around him and pull him close.

And he finally understood—he'd never see her again.

Even so, he stayed.

The silence ate at him—sharp, hollow, endless.

And when the door creaked open, and Wexley stepped inside—followed by Mara, Calla, and Cain—they found him just like that.

Curled into her lifeless form.

Damian didn't look up. Didn't speak.

He stayed there until he fell asleep.

No one moved.

They all sat, letting Damian sleep.

Wexley's eyes were red, dark bags sinking beneath them. The room stayed silent, except for Cain's soft snores as he slept curled against Mara.

When the nurses arrived the next morning, their presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, gentle, but still—an interruption. They spoke in hushed voices, informing them they needed to prepare Elira's body.

Wexley turned toward the bed and found Damian already awake, watching them.

He crouched beside him, his voice low, careful, as though afraid to break the delicate balance of the moment.

"Damian," he murmured, placing a tentative hand on the boy's small shoulder. "They… they need to move her now."

Damian didn't answer.

He stayed where he was, curled against Elira's body, his eyes blank and distant.

Wexley looked to Mara, helpless.

Mara moved closer, settling beside Damian, her voice soft as a breeze. "Damian, honey… the nurses are here. They need to get your mama ready, okay?"

For a long moment, he didn't move.

Then—finally—he let go.

He didn't look at anyone, didn't speak, just curled into himself, small and silent.

The nurses exchanged quiet glances. One stepped forward, bowing her head slightly.

"We'll see to her now," she said gently. "You can wait outside… or stay, if you prefer."

Mara looked at Damian for his cue, but he simply turned away, small and silent, and she nodded to the nurse, indicating they'd stay.

Wexley, on the other hand, excused himself. He stepped out, unable to watch.

When he finally returned, Elira looked… different. Her eyes had been closed, her mouth bandaged shut. Her hair was combed, her nails cleaned, her hands folded gently over her chest. She wore the gown Wexley had given her for their date, the fabric soft and flowing, delicate as a memory. Her wrists and ankles were tied, the traditional white bands a quiet formality.

Even in death, she was… breathtaking.

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest tight, before a voice broke through his haze.

"Good day. I'm looking for a Mr. Wells?"

A clerk had arrived, holding a small form and adjusting his glasses.

Wexley called softly to Damian, but the boy barely stirred.

The clerk blinked, eyes narrowing. "Oh—you're smaller than I expected. How old are you?"

Wexley answered for him. "He's ten."

The clerk clicked his tongue, looking around the room with mild impatience. "Is there someone older who can speak for Mrs. Wells?"

Wexley straightened, voice steady. "I can."

The clerk adjusted his glasses again, peering at him. "And… who are you to Mrs. Wells?"

Wexley paused, then said, quietly but firmly, "Her partner. And Damian's guardian."

The clerk gave a slight nod and began rattling off questions, his pen scratching across the form:

"Full name of the deceased… Age at death… Date and time of death… Occupation… Marital status… Religion or faith… Next of kin or informant's name… Address of the deceased and/or informant…"

Each word fell like a stone, dull and cold.

Wexley answered them all, his voice tight, his eyes flickering once in a while to Damian—still curled, still silent, as if the world had moved on without him.

When the questions ended, the clerk looked up, tapping the pen against the form. "One last thing. Burial or cremation?"

The air in the room seemed to vanish.

Wexley started to answer, but before he could, a small, unsteady voice rose.

"…What does cremation mean?"

Everyone turned.

Wexley swallowed, his throat tight. "It means… they use fire to return her body to ash. Some people keep the ashes in a special container, an urn. Others scatter them, in the ocean or the wind, in a place that's important."

Damian was quiet for a long time, as if weighing something too heavy for words.

Finally, he spoke.

"I want her… to be cremated."

Damian sat stiff and pale, his hands tight in his lap. His eyes didn't leave Elira's face—her still hands folded neatly over her chest, the faint trace of a smile shaped into her features.

"I don't want her worrying about me," Damian said quietly, his voice breaking but holding. "I want her to be free… like the stars."

His gaze dropped for a moment, as if the weight of the words might crush him, but he kept going—his voice a whisper, as though he were afraid she might hear him and think he was asking too much.

"I want her with me… wherever I am. Not trapped in the ground. I want to give her freedom."

The silence that followed was so heavy, it felt like even the walls leaned in to listen."

Wexley's throat tightened. His voice, when it came, was low and rough. "Okay, Damian. Cremation."

The clerk, unaware of the raw ache in the room, nodded briskly and scribbled the word onto the form. The pen scratched over the paper, final and cold.

When he left, the space felt hollow again.

Damian still didn't cry

Mara moved to sit beside him, her voice barely a breath. "We'll keep her close, sweetheart. We'll find a beautiful place for her… somewhere she can be with you, wherever you go."

Damian nodded, but he didn't look up.

His eyes stayed fixed on Elira, as if he could hold her with sheer will.

And when the nurses gently moved to take her away, Damian followed.

Right until the very last second.