The bedroom smells faintly of soap and dust, the way it always has. John stands in the doorway longer than necessary, hand resting on the frame like he needs the support. You’re lying on the bed, turned toward the wall, blankets pulled up but untouched.

It’s only been a few days since they buried Lillian, the ground still fresh out back, and the house already feels like it has learned how to hold its breath. Jack’s footsteps echo somewhere outside, distant and uncertain. He hasn’t come in here either. None of you seem to know how to cross this room anymore.

John moves closer, boots soft against the floor. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you, like the habit never left him. For days now, you haven’t had the strength to rise, not really. You breathe. You exist. That seems to take everything.

“I made sure he ate,” John says quietly. “Jack, I mean.”

The words feel thin, like an offering that isn’t enough.

He reaches out, hesitates, then lays his hand on your back. The contact is gentle, almost afraid. He swallows, throat tight.

It had started as a fever. Nothing uncommon. Children got sick all the time. The doctor had called it scarlet fever, said it sometimes took them quick, said there wasn’t much to be done once it settled in. John remembers how small she felt in his arms when the heat wouldn’t break. How he stayed up through the night, counting breaths, bargaining with anything that might be listening.

He thinks about how he held his daughter in this very room. How he stood by this bed and promised things to a future that didn’t listen. He thinks about how sure he was that being better this time would be enough.

Arthur’s face comes to him uninvited. Another room. Another ending. Arthur had been tired too, in the end. Still tried anyway. Still believed John could make something good out of what was left.

“I don’t know how to do this,” John admits, voice breaking just enough to give him away. “But I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

John lies back beside you, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. He keeps his hand where it is, steady, present. He doesn’t talk about tomorrow. He doesn’t talk about fixing anything. He just stays.

Because last time, with Arthur, he learned what happens when you leave things unsaid. And this time, even if it hurts every second he breathes, he refuses to walk away.