The Last days,
The snow fell quietly that morning, as if the world itself had paused to listen. Monaco had not seen such cold in years, the nurses said, but I knew it was not the season's doing. It was time drawing its last breath. It was the sky bowing in sympathy.
I woke before dawn, the room washed in a dim, bluish light that made everything appear unreal. The windowpane was veiled with frost, and through it, I could barely make out the streetlights burning like stubborn stars. For the first time in months, I was not afraid to open my eyes.
I felt no pain only a strange stillness, a calm that frightened even the silence. The monitors by my bedside blinked lazily, as though they too were growing tired of duty. Somewhere down the corridor, a radio murmured a French song. I didn't know the words, but the melody curled into my bones and stayed there.
It was my last morning, though I didn't say so.
Margot came in with her usual gentle clatter—tray in hand, hair tucked into a bun, eyes red from sleeplessness. "Bon matin, ma chérie," she said softly, her breath clouding the cold air. "You look better today."
I smiled because I didn't want her to cry. That was the first rule of dying gracefully: you make it easier for those who must remain. I took a sip of the tea she brought, though my tongue no longer cared for taste.
"Margot," I whispered, "do you believe people know when it's their time?"
She paused, stirring sugar into her own cup though she didn't drink from it. "Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes they just stop fighting."
"I stopped a long time ago," I murmured.
She reached for my hand but didn't speak again. That's another thing about kind people they know when silence is mercy.
When she left, I reached for my notebook. Its pages were full—some smudged, some barely legible. I had written to everyone: to Emmanuel, to Daniel, to Aunty Margarita, even to the nameless wind that once carried stories past my balcony. But the last page was blank, waiting.
And so I wrote this final letter, not to you, Father, but to myself.
"Dear Me,
You have done enough. You have rowed your boat through the tempests and the still waters alike. You have carried burdens meant for stronger shoulders, and yet you smiled. You have loved, even when love did not return. You have forgiven, even when forgiveness was undeserved. You have been both wound and healer, both wanderer and home. And now, you may rest."
I closed the notebook and held it to my chest. I could almost hear my heart echoing the words.
By noon, the light shifted. The snow outside had stopped, leaving the world wrapped in an aching kind of brightness. The sky was white—endless, merciless. I could not tell where heaven began.
Visitors came and went. A priest, though I never called for one. A nurse I barely knew. They said prayers in languages I half-understood. I nodded politely. Every voice, every sound seemed distant, as if coming from behind a curtain.
Then, as the afternoon waned, a letter arrived.
It was yours.
The nurse said it had been redirected three times before finding me. Your handwriting was the same, sharp, deliberate, unwilling to bend. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.
> "My daughter,
If this letter reaches you, then the world is kinder than I imagined. I have no grave for you, though I thought of building one. I could not. Every time I tried, your laughter would interrupt the sound of the shovel. I see you everywhere—in the lemon tree, in the garage, in the reflection of my morning tea. I have not moved on, as you believe. I simply learned to live with the ache.
They told me you left because of me. Perhaps they are right. I was hard, proud, unyielding. I thought love meant discipline. I did not know that it could also mean listening. If I could rewrite the past, I would start with the day you said goodbye. I would follow you to the airport. I would call your name. I would beg you to stay.
If you ever forgive me, let it be quietly. I deserve no grand reconciliation. Just know that every morning, I look at the sky and imagine you there.
Father."
I did not cry. The tears had long dried somewhere in the years between us. Instead, I pressed the letter to my lips and closed my eyes. The forgiveness I had given hours before met his words halfway, and for the first time, I felt whole.
The day faded into evening. The nurse dimmed the lights. The machines hummed lower, like tired lullabies.
That night, Margot sat beside me again. She read aloud from a small book—something about journeys and the sea. Her voice swayed like a tide, pulling me gently toward its rhythm.
"Tell me a story," I whispered.
She smiled. "About what?"
"About someone who lived twice."
She thought for a moment, then said, "Once there was a girl who feared the dark. She spent her life lighting candles, afraid that if the flame went out, she would vanish too. But one day, the wind came and blew out all her lights. The girl waited for the darkness to swallow her—but instead, she discovered stars. That was how she lived twice."
I wanted to thank her, but my lips barely moved. The stars. Yes, that was it. I could feel them gathering beyond the ceiling.
Around midnight, I drifted in and out of a half-sleep. I dreamed of the compound again—the pine trees, the mango tree, the scent of lemon and motor oil. Mother was there, sitting on the veranda, humming that song she used to hum when the power went out. The air was golden, like it had been soaked in honey. Daniel was chasing a butterfly, laughing. You stood near the gate, your arms folded, pretending to scold him but smiling all the same.
Then, you turned to me.
You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You opened your arms, and I ran into them. I felt the warmth of home, of forgiveness, of all the years lost returning in a single heartbeat.
When I woke, the window was open. The curtains fluttered softly, letting in the faint glow of dawn. A bird was perched on the sill, small and brown, its head tilted as though studying me.
"Good morning," I whispered.
It didn't move. It only sang—a single, clear note that hung in the air before fading into silence.
The angel was near. I could feel him in the stillness that followed, in the weightless space between one breath and the next. I was not afraid.
Margot must have known too. She came quietly, took my hand, and said nothing. My pulse fluttered weakly under her fingers.
"I'm here," she said.
"I know," I breathed. "Tell Father I… I found my way."
Her tears fell onto my wrist—warm, human, alive.
Outside, the world stirred. Somewhere, a bell rang. Somewhere else, a door opened. And in that instant, everything—pain, regret, distance—dissolved.
I felt myself becoming light.
Not the light that burns, but the one that reveals. The one that forgives.
I saw Emmanuel waiting at the edge of a river I did not recognize. He was smiling, his hand outstretched. Behind him stood Mother, her face young again, her laughter echoing through the air. Daniel was there too, waving, calling my name.
I turned once more, hoping to see you, Father. And I did—not in flesh, but in memory, standing at the balcony, your face softened by years and sorrow. You were humming that same Sunday tune, the one I never knew the words to. Now, I understood it.
It was not a funeral song. It was a homecoming.
The wind lifted me gently, like a sigh. The river glowed beneath my feet, and for a moment, I hesitated—not from fear, but from awe. This was what peace felt like.
As I crossed, the world behind me dimmed. The machines fell silent. The nurses bowed their heads. Somewhere in the hospital, Margot whispered a prayer in French: Va en paix, mon ange. Go in peace, my angel.
And I did.
The river swallowed my reflection. The light embraced me fully.
Somewhere, perhaps on a distant morning, you will wake and feel it—a sudden calm, a soft warmth against your chest. Don't be alarmed. It will be me, passing through, leaving a fragment of the love I once carried, now free from the heaviness of grief.
I will not haunt you. I will only linger in the gentle things—the rustle of leaves, the hum of your car engine, the whisper of rain on the windowpane. That is how love endures: quietly, faithfully, endlessly.
And when your own time comes, when the angel finally finds you as he found me, do not fear him. He is not cruel. He is simply the tide returning you home.
Row your boat, Father. Gently, merrily, just as I wrote. The stream is not as long as it seems.
We will meet again beyond sound, beyond sorrow, beyond everything that once kept us apart.
Until then,
Your daughter,
At peace.