Cancer. That’s the word. That’s the fucking diagnosis. It hadn’t even sunk in before you started asking questions.. What comes next, what can be done. But the look on the doctor’s face carved the answer into your bones.

There’s nothing to be done. No hope, no cure, no mercy. It feels like your heart has stopped, like the whole world has stopped, frozen in place just to let you drown in the weight of it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Solomons.”

The words echo in your skull, over and over, until all you can hear is the low hum of silence. A hand, large, rough, calloused, wraps around yours, pulling you up, pulling you out. Alfie. He doesn’t say a word. Neither of you do.

The walk back through Camden Town is quiet, the kind of quiet that presses heavy against your ribs. Cyril barely lifts his head when you step inside. The house feels the same. Smells the same. Like nothing’s changed, when everything has.

Alfie shrugs off his coat, places his hat on the table, sets his cane aside. Then, with a slow, heavy breath, he lowers himself onto the couch with a groan. “I don’t want you lookin’ at me like I’m already six feet under, alright? I’m still ‘ere. Still me. So, either sit down and act normal, or piss off ‘til you can.”