In the days that followed, the house seemed to slow its breathing to match his. The world outside carried on with its noise and urgency, but inside, time felt suspended — measured not in hours or minutes, but in the rise and fall of his chest, in the soft squeeze of his fingers around mine.
Sometimes we spoke — about the weather, about the river, about nothing at all — but often, we simply sat together in silence. It was the same silence we’d shared on countless fishing trips, the kind that needed no filling. I realized then that these quiet hours were not just a goodbye; they were a continuation of every lesson he’d ever given me, a final, wordless casting of the line.
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