Winter had settled deep into the bones of the house.
The light came later now, paler, cooler. Outside, the trees stood bare and still, branches stretched against a silver sky. Inside, things moved slowly. Deliberately. Like time itself had softened its edges for us.
Edward was fading.
Not in a sudden way, not in fear or in pain. Just… gently. Quietly. The way a candle softens before it goes out. He slept more now. Ate little. His voice, once full of sharp wit and dry commentary, had grown softer, sometimes barely above a whisper. But his mind was still with us, clear-eyed and bright, when it chose to be.
We saw the difference. We didn't need to be told.
We saw it in how he now held his tea with both hands. In the longer pauses before speaking. In the way his gaze lingered—not with confusion, but with a kind of quiet memorization, like he was tucking things away for later.
