Being there, holding Bas’s hand as he takes his last breaths, is both a gift and a punishment I’ll carry forever. His eyes flutteropen once, pale and cloudy, searching for something beyond this room. For someone. For me, maybe.
Then, faintly, my name. “Samson.”
It breaks in the air like glass.
His fingers twitch once in my grasp, then still. I hold tighter, as if I can anchor him here, as if love alone could bargain with death. But the room grows too quiet. The rise and fall of his chest stills.
Alec’s hand finds my shoulder, trembling, and then he’s folding forward, collapsing over Bas’s body. His face presses into Bas’s stomach as he sobs, raw, unrestrained, shattering the silence with a grief so pure it feels sacred. He whispers his name, broken words of love and years and promises.
I can’t move. My vision blurs, tears spilling unchecked down my face. Everything hurts—my chest, my throat, my soul. The air is too thin, the walls too close. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The world feels wrong without Bas in it.
My father. My friend. My anchor.
Gone.
The room is full of everything he was and empty of him all at once. I fumble for my phone, my fingers unsteady, and press the screen before I can think. She answers on the third ring, her voice soft and groggy.
“Sam?”
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Bas.”
That’s all I can manage—just his name. The word cracks apart in my mouth, barely a whisper, but she understands. She always does.
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. “Oh no… Sam.” Her voice breaks, trembling with love and pain. “I’m coming.”
That’s all I need to hear. I need her.
Because right now, she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
30
OLIVIA
The past few days have been a blur of numbness, planning, and trying to keep it together. The funeral is tomorrow.
We leave Montreal early, heading toward Bas’s hometown in the Eastern Townships. The drive takes just over an hour, winding through landscapes that look like something out of a painting—rolling hills, fields streaked with gold and green, and clusters of old country homes that sit proudly along the lakes bordering Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. It’s the kind of place that feels suspended in time. Peaceful. Timeless.
Alec and Sam do their best to keep a conversation going. It’s soft, careful. They talk about the region the way Bas would have, boasting about its culinary treasures, about the duck and the cheeses and the lavender fields, about how the produce here tastes like sunshine.
I can hear Bas in every word. If he were here, he’d be sitting in the passenger seat, gesturing wildly with his hands, his eyes bright with that infectious pride for his home, his roots, his France-meets-Québec heritage.
The thought tugs at something deep inside me.
Sam’s hand finds mine somewhere along the drive, his thumb brushing lazy circles over my skin. Since Bas passed, we’ve been inseparable. He barely lets me out of his sight, and when I am near, he reaches for me constantly as if the simple act of touching me helps him stay upright. I hold him back every time.
He’s quieter than usual, though he tells stories about the Christmases they spent here. Of how Bas would cook for an army, how Alec would complain about the mess, how the house would smell of roasted chestnuts and brandy. His voice softens as he speaks, low and full of reverence.
When he mentions this year will be different, his hand tightens around mine. The car fills with silence, heavy and absolute. I don’t break it. Some silences aren’t meant to be filled.
Bas’s home is just as Sam described, a modest two-story with weathered siding and wide windows overlooking the lake. The land stretches endlessly, dotted with old birch and maple trees that must blaze in autumn. Inside, the floors are wood and tile, the bathrooms small, the furniture simple but warm. It smells faintly of cedar and smoke.
But the kitchen… God, the kitchen is something else. Stainless steel, warm lighting, a gleaming island large enough for ten people to gather. It’s the heart of the home, alive even in its quiet. Alec tells me that was the first thing Bas renovated, his face softening with the memory.
“He said a house doesn’t need to be fancy,” Alec murmurs, running a hand along the counter. “Just full of good food and love.”
The words hang in the air like a benediction.
As the day drags on and tomorrow looms closer, the house feels heavier. Alec grows quieter, retreating into himself. By nightfall, he disappears into the small office off the hall.
