Victor Whitaker had been stricken for a long time, a cruel cancer that gnawed at him day after day. Each morning blended into the nextgrey, faded, filled with pain and bitter pills. He endured it with a quiet resolve, staring at the plastered ceiling of his ward so as not to meet the tearfilled eyes of his wife, Elizabeth, and his daughter, Ethel, who forced smiles through their dwindling strength during brief visits. Then the moment arrived when the ending pressed itself upon him like a cold hand; he gazed at the drip and the cracked ceiling and thought, This is the beginning of the end. I shall not return home.
His condition worsened suddenly in the hospital. The illness, fierce as a wild beast, made its final, decisive strike. The world narrowed to the size of the ward, to the antiseptic scent and the muffled voices beyond the doors, and then it slipped away into a heavy, airless darkness.
And thensilence.
The pain vanished, every last drop of it. The oppressive weight that had pressed on his chest and bones for months melted away. He felt an unexpected, almost childlike lightness. He drew a deep breathtruly free for the first time in monthsand opened his eyes.
He stood in his own sittingroom. Sunlight danced on dust motes, settling on the familiar settee. And there they were.
Ethel clutched Elizabeth. Ethels shoulders trembled, and Elizabeths face was twisted with a silent, dreadful grief. Both were crying, their wails reaching him as if coming through thick glassdistant and muted.
What has happened? Victor thought, frozen. Why are they weeping? I am still in the hospital How did I get here?
He stepped toward them, yearning to embrace, to comfort, to ask. Yet they paid him no heed. He reached out to touch his daughters shoulder, but his fingers passed through empty air, finding only a faint chill.
A gasp of terror made him recoil, and his eyes fell upon a large portrait of himself set in a black mourning frame on the mantelpiece.
In an instant the fragments fell into a grim, impossible picture: his wifes tears, his daughters sobs, and himselfpresent yet unseen, intangible. He was not at home; he was beyond. He was witnessing what happens after.
Did I die? In the hospital and they have already buried me? The thought was monstrous, yet it held no doubt. The disease had claimed him. The end had truly arrived. But why could he still feel, see, understand?
He watched the two dearest people to him, and his heartwhat once was his heartsplintered with helplessness and pity. He wanted to shout, Im here! Im all right! I feel no pain! Yet no sound escaped his lips.
In desperation he covered his face with his hands. Then, as if by miracle, the roar of the sea faded. He felt a small, warm hand rest upon his cheek. He opened his eyes.
Before him stood his mother, exactly as he remembered from childhoodyoung, smiling, with bright eyes that seemed to hold a halo. Behind her stretched an endless field bathed in a soft golden light, dotted with cornflowers, his favourite flowers.
Mother? he whispered. Is that you? How?
All is well, Victor dear, she said, her voice tender and familiar. Its over now. You are free. You only needed to say goodbye.
He glanced over his shoulder. The room with the two weeping women slowly receded, like an image fading from a screen, dissolving into light.
But they they his voice faltered.
They will be alright, his mother replied. They have each other, and the love you left with them will stay forever. Your suffering has ended. You have earned peace.
She gently took his hand. Her touch was real, alive. He looked into her eyes and saw boundless understanding and forgiveness.
Fear vanished. The old, exhausting pain was gone. Only a light sorrow lingered, like morning mist melting under the sun, giving way to a new, unknown but infinitely calm feeling.
Victor turned one last time. In that fading world his wife and daughter finally met each others gaze and, in a quiet, feminine gesture, pressed their foreheads together, finding a droplet of solace in each others arms.
He smiled at them, sending a parting blessing, then faced the light.
Come, Mother, he said softly. I have missed you so.
And he took his first step into his new, everlasting morning.
Back in the room where his beloved wife and daughter remained, something inexplicable occurred. Elizabeth suddenly ceased weeping and sat up straight, pressing a hand to her heart as if listening for a hidden rhythm.
Mother, what are you doing? Ethel asked, frightened.
I dont know Elizabeth murmured. I feel suddenly calm. Warm, as if Father just held us and whispered that he is fine.
They looked at the portrait in the black frame. Both swore they saw a faint, almost imperceptible smile on Victors tired yet kind face. The heaviness in the room lifted, replaced by a bright melancholy that held no despair, only a humble sorrow and endless gratitude for the years they had shared.
Thus the tale concludes:
Death is not an ending. It is a quiet farewell in one world, a passage to everlasting life in another. Love is the thread that binds the two realms together. It does not fray or fade. It lives in memory, in the warmest recollections, in the features of children and grandchildren, in the soft patter of rain against the window that someone once loved to hear.
Those we lose do not depart forever. They simply return Home, leaving us their love as comfort and hope that one day we shall meet againwhere there is no pain nor tears, only light and serene peace. As long as we remember and love, they are alivenot in an urn, but in every sunbeam that pierces the clouds, in every kind deed we perform in their honour.
They turn at parting, smile through the unseen veil, and whisper, Live. Be joyful. I am near. I am free. And you will overcome all.
P.S. Dear Father, I love you dearly and remember you always. I know you are always with me.
