The nurse met them at the door,her face kind but practised. “She’s peaceful. No pain. Breathing has slowed. You’ve got time to say goodbye.”
The room looked the same—beige walls, wilted geraniums, monitor beeping slower now, each interval longer than the last. Nan lay still under the thin blanket, small and fragile, face slack but serene. No more shallow gasps. Just quiet, rhythmic breaths that seemed to come from somewhere far away.
They sat on either side of the bed. Jax took Nan’s right hand. Aria took her left.
No words at first.
Jax leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Nan’s knuckles. “I’m here, Nan,” he whispered. “We’re both here.”
Aria stroked the back of Nan’s hand—skin paper-thin, veins blue and delicate. She thought of the woman who’d hugged her at Christmas, who’d winked at them over scones, who’d told her not to waste a moment.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time lost meaning.
Nan’s breaths grew further apart.
Then one long exhale.
A pause.
No inhale.
Jax made a small, broken sound.
Aria felt the sob rise in her own throat but swallowed it down. This was his moment.
He stayed bent over Nan’s hand, shoulders shaking silently. Aria moved around the bed, wrapped her arms around him from behind—chest to his back, cheek against his shoulder. He reached up, gripped her forearm, held on.
They stayed like that until the nurse gently came in, checked vitals, nodded.
“She’s gone peacefully,” the nurse said. “I’m so sorry.”
Jax nodded once—mechanical. Stood. Kissed Nan’s forehead—slow, lingering.
“Thank you,” he said to the nurse. “For everything.”
Then he moved through the next things like someone following a checklist he’d memorised long ago: paperwork, calls, arrangements. Numb. Efficient. Aria stayed beside him—silent support, hand on his back when he faltered, quiet answers when he looked at her like he’d forgotten how words worked.
Hours later they left the centre. The sun was up now—bright, cruelly cheerful.
They drove back to the flat in silence.
Inside, Jax stopped in the hallway, staring at Nan’s slippers like they were foreign objects.
Aria didn’t ask. She just moved to the kitchen.
She found chicken stock in the freezer, carrots, celery, onion, a packet of noodles. Her mum’s comforting soup recipe—the one she’d made every time someone was sick, heartbroken, or just tired of the world. Aria chopped, stirred, let the smell of broth and thyme fill the small space.
When it was ready she ladled two bowls, set them on the coffee table.
Jax sat on the couch—still in yesterday’s clothes, still hollow-eyed.
She sat beside him. Handed him a bowl.
He took it. Stared at it. Then lifted the spoon.
They ate in silence at first.
Then he spoke—voice cracked. “She always said hospital food was rubbish.”
