Chapter 2: fading light

The morning sun had not yet fully emerged when Abigail awoke to the soft hum of the house. The faint scent of her aunt’s herbal tea drifted up from the kitchen, mingling with the lingering aroma of baked bread from the previous night. She lay for a moment, listening, savoring the familiar sounds—the creak of floorboards, the distant chirping of birds, the faint purr of Whiskers stretched lazily on the windowsill.

Carefully, Abigail rose and pulled on her slippers, feeling the cool wood beneath her feet. She carried the small locket her aunt had given her the week before, twisting it gently in her hand. “Good morning, Aunt Lila,” she whispered, half to herself, half as a ritual. The words felt heavier today, burdened with the unspoken knowledge of her aunt’s illness, yet she repeated them anyway, as though the affirmation alone could shield them both.

Downstairs, the kettle’s whistle pierced the quiet, followed by the soft scrape of a chair. Lila was already awake, leaning slightly on the counter, her movements slower than usual. Abigail noticed immediately.

“Morning,” Lila said, voice soft, warm, but carrying a faint rasp. “Coffee?”

“Of course,” Abigail replied, pouring the steaming liquid into two mugs. “Want me to make it strong enough to wake the dead, like last week?”

Lila chuckled softly, though her laughter was subdued. “Just strong enough to wake me. You know my limits.”

They sat together at the table, Abigail staring into her mug, trying to memorize the swirl of steam as it coiled and danced upward. She tried to savor this simple moment, but worry gnawed at her chest. Lila’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup, her breath catching in short, shallow gulps.

“You’re really tired, aren’t you?” Abigail asked, her voice gentle.

“Just a little,” Lila admitted, brushing it off with a faint smile. “I’ll be fine after breakfast.”

Abigail’s eyes lingered on her aunt, scanning every movement, every hesitation. She wanted to push, to demand she rest more, but she remembered how stubborn Lila could be, how fiercely she tried to remain the strong one. “Okay… just promise me you’ll slow down if you need to,” Abigail said softly.

“I promise,” Lila said, squeezing her hand. “But some days, I need to be stubborn. You’ll forgive me for that, right?”

“Of course,” Abigail said, though her stomach twisted. She had always admired her aunt’s stubborn streak, but lately it scared her.

After breakfast, they decided to tend the garden—a morning ritual Abigail loved, but today it was slower, more deliberate. Lila’s steps faltered, and she leaned on the handle of the hoe, her breath catching as she straightened. Abigail moved closer, taking the heavier tools from her aunt’s hands.

“You’re slowing down,” Abigail said gently.

“Old bones,” Lila said, laughing lightly, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nothing more.”

Abigail knelt beside her aunt, planting a row of daisies with trembling fingers. “I’m still faster than you,” she teased, trying to lighten the moment.

“You’re…getting cocky,” Lila said with a faint laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Abigail glanced at the trembling hands she helped steady, the shallow breaths she tried to ignore, and felt the first prickling edge of panic. She didn’t say it, though. Instead, she focused on the flowers, the warmth of the sun, the faint hum of life around them. For now, they were together. That was enough.

The morning stretched lazily into afternoon. Abigail suggested a walk to the nearby park, hoping the routine would bring a bit of joy to the day. Lila agreed, leaning heavily on Abigail’s arm. Their pace was slower than usual, but the breeze was gentle, the sky a soft shade of blue, and for a moment, Abigail almost convinced herself everything was normal.

They fed pigeons, laughed at a dog chasing its tail, and shared stories from their past—Abigail recalling mischievous adventures from school, Lila recounting moments from her youth, some funny, some poignant. Each story was a thread, weaving a fragile tapestry of normalcy, but Abigail noticed the subtle tremor in Lila’s voice, the way she leaned too heavily against the bench, the shallow breaths she tried to hide.

Back home, Abigail suggested baking cookies—another ritual, another anchor in a world that seemed to tremble on the edge of change. Lila agreed, though her movements were slower, her hands shaking as she measured flour and stirred the batter. Abigail took over the heavier tasks, yet let Lila add the chocolate chips, letting her maintain some semblance of control.

“You’re really taking over,” Lila teased, smiling through her fatigue. “I used to be the master chef.”

“You’ll always be the master chef,” Abigail said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m just your apprentice.”

They laughed, the sound echoing through the small kitchen, yet Abigail couldn’t shake the unease that tugged at her heart. She caught glimpses of fragility—hands trembling, fleeting gasps for air, the slight hesitation in every movement. And with every laugh, every shared story, the shadow of fear crept closer, a reminder that time was slipping faster than she could hold.

After the baking, Abigail cleaned up, her hands busy to keep her mind from racing. Lila settled into the couch, leaning against the cushions, her eyes soft. “Promise me something?” Lila said, voice gentle but urgent.

“Anything,” Abigail replied immediately.

“Promise me you’ll keep living, Abby,” Lila said, her gaze locking onto hers. “Don’t let my shadow stop you from shining, even when I’m gone.”

Abigail swallowed hard, tears pricking her eyes. “I promise. I just…want you to be here as long as possible.”

“I’ll be here,” Lila said softly. “Every moment we can have, I’ll be here.”

Evening came, stretching lazily across the sky. Abigail watched as Lila leaned against her chair, lost in thought, and she couldn’t help but feel the fragility of the moment. She remembered the days when Lila had been strong, vibrant, unstoppable. She recalled their hikes in the woods, late-night talks in the kitchen, whispered secrets and laughter that echoed through the house. And now, those memories felt more precious than ever.

Later, as Abigail tidied the kitchen, she caught herself staring at her aunt, so small and frail in the glow of the lamp. “You’re doing more than you think,” Abigail whispered. “Every day. Just by being you.”

Lila reached out, brushing Abigail’s hair back. “You always know the right thing to say,” she murmured. “Even when the world feels heavy.”

That night, Abigail lay in bed, the locket clutched tightly in her hand. Her mind replayed the day: the garden, the laughter, the walks, the baking, the quiet moments of fear and love. She thought of every small tremor, every shallow breath, every whispered promise, and the weight of it pressed down on her chest.

Yet amid the fear, there was warmth—a fragile, precious warmth that she refused to let go of. She pressed the locket to her heart, whispering, “I love you, Aunt Lila. And I’ll hold onto you, no matter what.”

Sleep came slowly, with dreams that were a patchwork of laughter, sunlight, flowers, and shadows. In the quiet of the night, Abigail felt a determination solidify inside her—a determination to treasure every fleeting moment, to be the strength her aunt needed, and to face the growing darkness together, even as it crept closer with every breath.