CHAPTER FIVE — The Last Good Morning
Elara
The last good morning didn't feel important.
That was the problem.
It arrived quietly, folded into routine, disguised as another ordinary start to a day that promised nothing unusual. No warning. No heaviness. No sense of finality pressing at the edges.
Just morning.
I woke to the sound of my father moving around downstairs—cups touching, a chair scraping softly against the floor, the radio humming low like it always did. The house smelled of coffee and toast. Familiar. Comforting.
Safe.
I stayed in bed longer than I should have, listening. If I had known it was the last time I would hear those sounds, I might have memorized them. Counted the seconds between footsteps. Burned the rhythm into myself.
But I didn't know.
Downstairs, he stood at the counter in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck. His tablet was propped beside his coffee, unreadable numbers reflected faintly in his glasses.
"Morning," I said, reaching for a mug.
He looked up and smiled — the real one, warm and unguarded.
"There she is," he said. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough."
"That means no," he replied easily.
My mother sat at the table sorting mail, already dressed, already braced for the day. She glanced up at me.
"Eat something," she said. "You forget when you're thinking."
"I'm not thinking," I said.
My father snorted. "That's what worries me."
Lucas burst in late, half-buttoned and chaotic, grabbing toast as he ran for the door. Aaron followed more carefully, backpack hugged to his chest, anxiety written plainly across his face.
"I don't get this part," Aaron said, holding out his homework.
My father didn't hesitate. He set everything down and leaned in, explaining patiently, as if time was endless.
"See?" he said when Aaron nodded. "You're smarter than you think."
Aaron smiled — small, proud.
I watched them from the doorway, something tight and warm blooming in my chest. This, I thought. This is what matters.
"You coming with me later?" my father asked me as the boys left.
"You promised," I said.
"And I keep my promises."
My mother shook her head, smiling faintly. "You plan like you're immortal."
He kissed her cheek. "Someone has to believe in tomorrow."
At the door, he paused, keys in hand.
"Elara," he said, looking back at me. "Don't think so much."
I smiled. "You always say that."
"That's because it's always true."
He waved once and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft, familiar sound. Not a slam. Not a pause. Just the quiet click of a life continuing as it always had.
I stood there longer than necessary, my mug cooling in my hands, listening as his footsteps faded down the path. The porch light was still on, though the sun had already climbed high enough to make it unnecessary. He must have forgotten to turn it off.
That should have meant something to me.
Instead, I went about my morning. I rinsed my mug. I straightened a chair. I folded a piece of mail my mother had left on the table. The house adjusted easily to his absence, as if it had done this before and would do it again.
My mother moved through the kitchen with practiced calm, humming under her breath. She didn't know either. None of us did. If she had, she might have said more. Might have asked him to stay. Might have watched him leave instead of turning back to the sink.
I went upstairs to get ready, passing the framed photographs along the staircase—birthdays, holidays, moments frozen in light. His presence filled them all. He stood just behind us in most of them, a hand on someone's shoulder, a smile not meant for the camera but for us.
Later, I would replay that morning endlessly. I would wonder why I didn't hug him longer. Why I didn't say something meaningful instead of nothing at all. Why I let routine steal what could have been a goodbye.
But that morning, there was no urgency.
There was no sense that the house was already beginning to forget the sound of his voice, that the light he carried with him would leave with his footsteps and never return.
He had promised he would be back before seven.
I believed him.
Because he had never given me a reason not to.
And that was the cruelest part of all.
The house carried on after he left, unaware that it had just let go of its center. Sunlight crept farther across the kitchen floor, catching on the edges of chairs, the corner of the table, the handle of the kettle he had forgotten to turn all the way back. His mug sat by the sink, a faint ring of coffee marking where it had rested. I noticed it and meant to move it, then didn't. Some instinct told me to leave it exactly where it was.
I went upstairs to get dressed. His door was open, as it always was in the mornings. Inside, the room was neat in the way only his was—bed made, curtains half-drawn, his jacket laid carefully over the chair instead of tossed aside. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, clean and familiar. I paused there longer than necessary, leaning against the doorframe, letting the quiet settle around me.
At the time, it felt peaceful.
Later, I would understand it differently.
I dressed slowly, distracted by small thoughts that didn't matter—what to wear, what I had to do that day, whether I had time to stop somewhere before heading out. Ordinary concerns, the kind that only exist when you believe tomorrow is guaranteed.
Downstairs, my mother had finished sorting the mail. She lined the envelopes neatly and slid them into a drawer, already planning when to deal with them. She moved with the confidence of someone who trusted that the world would remain predictable for a little while longer. When she looked up at me, her eyes were soft, untroubled.
"Don't forget your keys," she said.
"I won't."
We exchanged a smile that meant nothing special at the time. No pause. No lingering look. Just habit.
That is what undid me later—the absence of ceremony. The way nothing marked the moment as different. The way love, so present and so certain, didn't feel the need to announce itself.
If I had known, I would have followed him outside. I would have watched him get into the car. I would have memorized the way he turned before closing the door, the small wave he sometimes gave when he thought no one was looking. I would have said something that mattered.
Instead, I let the day begin.
Hours later, when the house would feel too still, when the light would look wrong even though the bulbs hadn't changed, I would think back to that morning again and again. I would realize that meaning doesn't announce itself when it arrives. It waits. It hides in routine. It disguises itself as normal.
The last good morning wasn't heavy because it was final.
It was heavy because it was gentle.
Because it was full of all the things I thought I had time to say.
Because it ended with a promise he fully intended to keep.
And because I let him walk away believing he would come back to the life he had so carefully built—for me.
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