| General Fiction posted September 29, 2024 |
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When there are no more todays
Promise Me Tomorrow
by Begin Again
She fiddled with the lock on the door, trying to remember the trick he'd shown her to get it to work. "Slide it to the left," he'd say, his fingers effortlessly guiding the key, "then give it a little turn." But now, standing here alone, her hands felt clumsy.
With a sigh, she stepped back from the door, letting her gaze drift upward. The night was clear, the stars scattered like diamonds across the sky, and the moon was full, casting a pale glow over the yard.
She stood there for a moment, watching the familiar sky that had seen them through so many years — through laughter, arguments, and quiet nights like this one.
A lump formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it. Her lips moved in a barely audible whisper. "Dear Lord, it's me again. I don't mean to be a pest, but I need to ask one more time so we can get through this night. Please, let him be okay."
The breeze stirred gently around her, cool against her skin, and she closed her eyes, sending her prayer upward with the wind. She knew he was listening — hadn't he been by her side every night — showing her that everything would be alright?
After a long pause, she opened her eyes and looked back at the house. Inside, he was waiting, resting, just as he had been every night for the last few months. Each night felt longer now, each small task reminding her of all the tomorrows they had counted on. Tomorrow felt more uncertain than ever.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key back into the lock, this time more carefully, like he'd shown her. The mechanism clicked open, and the door swung inward with a soft creak. She turned back toward the night sky for a final moment, whispering, "Thanks for giving us today."
And then, she stepped inside.
She crossed the dimly lit room and sat beside the hospital bed. She'd moved it into the dining room, near the double doors, so he could see the river and where they'd sat together so many times. Her fingers entwined with his, the warmth slowly leaving his skin. She bent and kissed his hand, whispering, "I love you."
The rhythmic tic-tock of the grandfather clock was the only noise in the stillness — that and his barely audible breathing.
She glanced at the old shelf in the corner, sagging under the weight of too many books and memories. It had been like that for years.
"How many times," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, "did you say you'd fix that tomorrow?"
Her eyes drifted back to his face, pale and peaceful. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, trying to keep herself together. But the silence in the room was unbearable — until it wasn't.
A sharp, mechanical squeal suddenly cut through the quiet, startling her. The water softener had kicked in again. It was a sound she'd gotten used to, but it was wrong somehow now. Too loud, too sharp, too real. She tried to smile through her tears.
"I know," she murmured softly, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "You were going to fix that tomorrow, too."
Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the noise stopped. The room grew still. Too still.
His lips were moving as if he had something to say. She put her head closer, straining to hear his words. And then she knew —
Her heart sank as she realized there was no more breath coming from him. No rise and fall of his chest. The silence now was suffocating. Her tears fell freely, tracing the familiar lines of her face as she leaned over him, resting her forehead against his.
"Promise me," she whispered through the sobs, her lips trembling against his cold cheek. "Promise me — you'll fix this tomorrow."
She fiddled with the lock on the door, trying to remember the trick he'd shown her to get it to work. "Slide it to the left," he'd say, his fingers effortlessly guiding the key, "then give it a little turn." But now, standing here alone, her hands felt clumsy.
With a sigh, she stepped back from the door, letting her gaze drift upward. The night was clear, the stars scattered like diamonds across the sky, and the moon was full, casting a pale glow over the yard.
She stood there for a moment, watching the familiar sky that had seen them through so many years — through laughter, arguments, and quiet nights like this one.
A lump formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it. Her lips moved in a barely audible whisper. "Dear Lord, it's me again. I don't mean to be a pest, but I need to ask one more time so we can get through this night. Please, let him be okay."
The breeze stirred gently around her, cool against her skin, and she closed her eyes, sending her prayer upward with the wind. She knew he was listening — hadn't he been by her side every night — showing her that everything would be alright?
After a long pause, she opened her eyes and looked back at the house. Inside, he was waiting, resting, just as he had been every night for the last few months. Each night felt longer now, each small task reminding her of all the tomorrows they had counted on. Tomorrow felt more uncertain than ever.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key back into the lock, this time more carefully, like he'd shown her. The mechanism clicked open, and the door swung inward with a soft creak. She turned back toward the night sky for a final moment, whispering, "Thanks for giving us today."
And then, she stepped inside.
She crossed the dimly lit room and sat beside the hospital bed. She'd moved it into the dining room, near the double doors, so he could see the river and where they'd sat together so many times. Her fingers entwined with his, the warmth slowly leaving his skin. She bent and kissed his hand, whispering, "I love you."
The rhythmic tic-tock of the grandfather clock was the only noise in the stillness — that and his barely audible breathing.
She glanced at the old shelf in the corner, sagging under the weight of too many books and memories. It had been like that for years.
"How many times," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, "did you say you'd fix that tomorrow?"
Her eyes drifted back to his face, pale and peaceful. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, trying to keep herself together. But the silence in the room was unbearable — until it wasn't.
A sharp, mechanical squeal suddenly cut through the quiet, startling her. The water softener had kicked in again. It was a sound she'd gotten used to, but it was wrong somehow now. Too loud, too sharp, too real. She tried to smile through her tears.
"I know," she murmured softly, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "You were going to fix that tomorrow, too."
Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the noise stopped. The room grew still. Too still.
With a sigh, she stepped back from the door, letting her gaze drift upward. The night was clear, the stars scattered like diamonds across the sky, and the moon was full, casting a pale glow over the yard.
She stood there for a moment, watching the familiar sky that had seen them through so many years — through laughter, arguments, and quiet nights like this one.
A lump formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it. Her lips moved in a barely audible whisper. "Dear Lord, it's me again. I don't mean to be a pest, but I need to ask one more time so we can get through this night. Please, let him be okay."
The breeze stirred gently around her, cool against her skin, and she closed her eyes, sending her prayer upward with the wind. She knew he was listening — hadn't he been by her side every night — showing her that everything would be alright?
After a long pause, she opened her eyes and looked back at the house. Inside, he was waiting, resting, just as he had been every night for the last few months. Each night felt longer now, each small task reminding her of all the tomorrows they had counted on. Tomorrow felt more uncertain than ever.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key back into the lock, this time more carefully, like he'd shown her. The mechanism clicked open, and the door swung inward with a soft creak. She turned back toward the night sky for a final moment, whispering, "Thanks for giving us today."
And then, she stepped inside.
She crossed the dimly lit room and sat beside the hospital bed. She'd moved it into the dining room, near the double doors, so he could see the river and where they'd sat together so many times. Her fingers entwined with his, the warmth slowly leaving his skin. She bent and kissed his hand, whispering, "I love you."
The rhythmic tic-tock of the grandfather clock was the only noise in the stillness — that and his barely audible breathing.
She glanced at the old shelf in the corner, sagging under the weight of too many books and memories. It had been like that for years.
"How many times," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, "did you say you'd fix that tomorrow?"
Her eyes drifted back to his face, pale and peaceful. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, trying to keep herself together. But the silence in the room was unbearable — until it wasn't.
A sharp, mechanical squeal suddenly cut through the quiet, startling her. The water softener had kicked in again. It was a sound she'd gotten used to, but it was wrong somehow now. Too loud, too sharp, too real. She tried to smile through her tears.
"I know," she murmured softly, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "You were going to fix that tomorrow, too."
Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the noise stopped. The room grew still. Too still.
His lips were moving as if he had something to say. She put her head closer, straining to hear his words. And then she knew —
Her heart sank as she realized there was no more breath coming from him. No rise and fall of his chest. The silence now was suffocating. Her tears fell freely, tracing the familiar lines of her face as she leaned over him, resting her forehead against his.
"Promise me," she whispered through the sobs, her lips trembling against his cold cheek. "Promise me — you'll fix this tomorrow."
Her heart sank as she realized there was no more breath coming from him. No rise and fall of his chest. The silence now was suffocating. Her tears fell freely, tracing the familiar lines of her face as she leaned over him, resting her forehead against his.
"Promise me," she whispered through the sobs, her lips trembling against his cold cheek. "Promise me — you'll fix this tomorrow."
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