—
One Year Ago: December 2nd
—

The hospital room was dark, the blizzard outside pressing against the windows, swallowing the early morning light. The hum of machines filled the silence, a metronome marking time Auden didn't want to acknowledge. She sat curled in a plastic chair, wrapped in a thick blanket, sleep just out of reach. She had spent the night grading papers, trying to force normalcy into a situation that was anything but. Now, there was nothing left to distract her — only the quiet weight of waiting. 

She sighed, uncurling her body from the chair as she cracked her eyes open. She looked at the clock that hung on the wall. It was 5:30 in the morning. Her father lay still in the bed, his body thin beneath the hospital sheets. Tubes ran from his arms, feeding him whatever was necessary to keep him here a little longer. His skin was paper-thin, his breath shallow. The doctors had him so sedated that he barely stirred these days. When he did wake, it was in fleeting moments, his lucidity like a candle flickering in the wind. 

Auden knew. She knew what the hospice nurse meant when she spoke in soft, measured tones. She knew what the tightening in her chest meant every time she looked at him. But knowing didn't make it easier. 

A rustling, then a quiet croak: "Audie?" 

Her breath caught. He was awake. She was on her feet before she realized, moving to his side. His hand, cold as the windowpane behind her, twitched weakly in search of hers. She caught it, rubbing her palm over his knuckles, willing warmth back into him. 

"Hey, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling with relief, "How are you feeling?" 

Michael's lips lifted into something resembling a smile. "Better now that you're here." 

"I'm always here," she reminded him, tightening her grip, as if she could anchor him to this world just by holding on. 

"You should be teaching," he murmured, his voice hoarse. 

Auden huffed a quiet laugh. Even now, he was keeping her in line. "I don't have a class today." A lie. She had canceled, again. Her students were probably celebrating, blissfully unaware of the reason why. 

Her father arched a brow weakly — the same look he had given her since childhood when he saw straight through her. "It's the middle of the week." 

"Leave it to you to discipline me on your deathbed," she teased, trying for lightness, though it came out brittle. 

He chuckled, but it turned into a hacking cough, his frail body wracking with the effort. Panic gripped her as she hurried to sit him up, rubbing his back as he struggled to catch his breath. When he finally sagged against the pillows, his face was paler than before, his breathing ragged. 

"I hate that you have to take care of me," he rasped. 

Auden swallowed the lump in her throat, glancing at the tissue in her hand, speckled with bright red dots. She forced herself to turn away, to toss it in the bin without reacting. 

"You took care of me for twenty-seven years," she murmured. "It's my turn now." 

Silence stretched between them, the weight of mortality pressing down. She thought he had drifted off again until he squeezed her hand, his fingers featherlight. 

"I'm so tired, Audie." 

Her chest tightened. She brought his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles softly. They had never been like this — never sentimental, never outwardly affectionate — but something in her knew this was the last chance she'd have. 

His hand, weak but steady, brushed her hair from her face. "Just like your mother," he murmured. "Her hair was always in her face." 

Auden felt her body freeze. He never spoke about her mother. Not unless he was drunk, and even then, it was fleeting, an unfinished sentence lost to the haze of whiskey. Now, in the dim hospital light, he was looking at her like he was seeing someone else. 

Michael's thumb brushed weakly against the back of her hand. "I've been thinking about her quite a bit."

For some reason, Auden felt as if she had lost the ability to speak.

"She left so easily," he continued, his voice distant, like he was lost in the past. "Like we were just... nothing to her."
Auden felt a familiar, bitter sting in her chest.

"I tried, Auden," Michael continued, his breathing shaky. "I tried so damn hard to be enough for you. To make up for what she took away."

Auden shook her head fiercely. "You were enough, Dad."

Michael's lips pressed together. "I don't know if I was." His eyes glistened with something heavy. "I should've done more. Given you more. I didn't want you to grow up feeling like you weren't wanted."

Auden felt her throat tighten. "You were all I needed."

Michael exhaled a long, shuddering breath. "I didn't know if I was doing it right. Most days, I felt like I was making it up as I went." He let out a quiet, tired laugh. "Remember when you were eight, and you wanted to be a magician?"

Auden managed a wet, trembling smile. "You bought me that magic kit. And you let me practice my tricks on you for weeks."

Michael huffed. "You were terrible at them."

She let out a weak laugh, shaking her head. "I really was."

Michael sighed. "But I would've watched you do those tricks every damn day if it made you happy." He squeezed her hand  — or tried to. He was getting weaker. "I wanted you to have a good life, Auden. Even when I was too tired, even when I didn't have a clue what I was doing, I tried." His voice wavered. "But I wasn't enough to keep her from leaving. And I wasn't enough..."

His words trailed off, his gaze flickering toward the monitors, the quiet understanding of what was coming settling over them both.

Auden's heart clenched, his consciousness was moving in and out, Auden's face blurring between her own and her mother's.

"Don't," she whispered, shaking her head. "Don't do that. You didn't fail me."

Michael's eyes softened. "I just wanted you to feel loved."
A sob broke from Auden's chest before she could stop it. She lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a trembling kiss to his knuckles. "I did. I do."

Michael exhaled, his features relaxing slightly, like he had needed to hear that — like it gave him some measure of peace.

"I love you, Auden," he murmured, his voice so quiet now, so weak. "I always have."

Auden felt her chest cave in. Her father — the man who had always been sturdy, unshakable — was breaking in front of her, and she could do nothing but watch. Auden let out a broken sob, her forehead pressing against their joined hands.

"You are my life, Audie," he continued, voice barely above a breath. "I have never loved anything as much as you. I should have told you that more." 

He knew. He knew this was the end. And he was saying goodbye. 

"Please," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this without you. You're all I have." 

"You can," he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed. "You're your father's daughter. I made sure of that." 

"No, Dad," she begged, standing without realizing. His hand slipped from her grasp, landing limply against the sheets. She clutched the bed rail, as if holding onto the cold metal could hold onto him. 

He was still breathing, but he was slipping away again, back into the place where he didn't hurt, where the cancer wasn't eating him alive. 

"Dad," she tried again, desperate. But there was no response. 

Auden sank to her knees, gripping the rail like it was the only thing keeping her from drowning. She pressed her forehead against the side of the bed, and for the first time in her life, she sobbed. She stayed there, weeping into the sterile sheets, until her arms went numb and she could no longer hold herself up. A part of her knew, even then, that this was it. That he wouldn't wake up again. 

And four hours later, he was gone.

—
Present Day, December 2nd 
—

Her room was still and dark, save for the soft rise and fall of Cillian's breathing beside her. Auden lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of her studio apartment, her body wrapped in a blanket that felt too heavy and yet not heavy enough. The clock ticked steadily from across the room, filling the silence with its relentless rhythm. 

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. 

Auden could hear nothing else. 

It was December 2nd. Her body woke her up before her mind could, as if it remembered before she did. The weight of this day lived in her bones, embedded so deeply that even in sleep, she could never escape it. 

She turned her head slightly, looking at Cillian in the faint sliver of light filtering through the curtains. He was fast asleep, his features softened, one hand resting near her hip beneath the blanket. Normally, she would have pressed into him, let herself drift back into his warmth. But not today. 

Tick, tock. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the tears. She could feel them just out of reach, like something lodged in her throat that refused to dislodge. She wanted to cry. She needed to. But she just — couldn't. 

Tick, tock. 

Her stomach twisted with frustration. How could she not cry? It had been a year since she lost him. Her father. The only person in the world who had been truly hers. The only one who had raised her, who had loved her, even if he hadn't always known how to say it. 

She sat up abruptly, clutching the blanket to her chest, the sudden movement jostling her cat at the foot of the bed. Her breath came faster now, shallow and uneven, her gaze locked on the clock hanging on the wall. 

5:27 a.m. 

Three minutes. Three minutes until the exact moment she had last heard his voice. 

Auden's pulse roared in her ears as she threw off the blanket, standing on unsteady legs. She crossed the small room, and reached for the clock, ripping it from the wall with a sharp tug. Its plastic casing dug into her fingers as she flipped it over, nails scrambling to pry open the battery compartment. 

The hand kept moving. 

Tick, tock. 

"Stop," she whispered harshly, jamming her fingers against the back. "Stop. Just stop." 

Her breathing quickened, panic clawing at her ribs as she struggled to open it. If she could just make it stop — just for today. Just for this moment. 

"Goddamn it," she hissed, her voice too loud in the stillness. 

Cillian stirred behind her, reaching across the empty space where she had been. His hand met cold sheets, and his eyes snapped open. 

"Auden?" His voice was thick with sleep as he pushed himself up on one elbow, blinking in the dim light. "What — what are you doing?" 

She didn't look at him, her focus still on the clock in her hands. "I need to take the batteries out." 

Cillian ran a hand over his face. "Right. And why, exactly?" 

"Because I can't stand the noise," she said, voice tight. "Do you have a screwdriver?" 

He stared at her for a moment before exhaling a short, incredulous laugh. "Ah, yeah, I left my toolkit pajamas at home." 

Auden's head snapped up, and she whirled on him, her eyes flashing. "This isn't funny." 

Cillian immediately sobered. "No, you're right," he said, his voice softer now. He watched her carefully as she dug her fingers into the back of the clock again, shoulders rising and falling too fast. "But, uh... do you want to tell me what's really going on?" 

She chewed the inside of her cheek, fingers tightening around the plastic frame. A part of her wanted to tell him. A part of her wanted to throw the damn clock against the wall. But before she could do either, she flipped it back over.

5:30 a.m. 

The last time her father had ever spoken to her. 

Auden choked on a gasp and hurled the clock across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crack, the batteries popping loose and rolling onto the floor. She barely heard them. The tears she had been waiting for came all at once, sudden and violent. Before she knew what was happening, she was moving — stumbling toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. 

A sob tore from her throat as she buried her face in her hands. The last time he was awake. The last time he had looked at her, had spoken to her, had told her he loved her.

The bathroom was cold, the tile unyielding beneath Auden's bare feet as she curled into herself, her hands clutching at her scalp. Her whole body shook with the force of her sobs, and she could barely catch her breath between them. 

The door creaked open. 

"Aud..." 

Cillian's voice was careful, hesitant, like he was stepping into a room filled with shattered glass. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing him to go away. She didn't want him to see her like this – gasping, unraveling, falling apart in a way that felt irreparable. But Cillian didn't leave. He crouched in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. 

"Talk to me," His voice was quiet, steady. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head violently, fingers digging harder into her scalp. 

Cillian exhaled softly. She felt his touch at her knee, a light brush of his fingers — testing, waiting. 

"You need to talk to me," he murmured. "Or I can't help you."

Auden let out a shuddering breath, lifting her tear-streaked face just enough to look at him. His blue eyes were filled with concern, with something she couldn't name — something that made her feel even more raw. 

"The last time I ever spoke to my dad," she forced out between shaky breaths, "was December 2nd at five-thirty in the morning." 

Cillian's expression changed instantly, softening with understanding. "Oh, Auden..." 

She couldn't look at him anymore. She stared at the floor instead, tears dripping onto the linoleum. Her hands clenched into fists against her thighs as she tried to steady herself, but it was useless. The grief had its claws in her, and she couldn't fight it. 

"He died a few hours later," she gasped, her whole body convulsing with the effort of holding herself together. "He knew he was dying, and he woke up just to say goodbye to me." 

She felt Cillian shift, his hands reaching for her, but she flinched back violently. 

"No," she snapped, her voice hoarse. "Don't." 

She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the cold bathroom wall as if she could disappear into it. Cillian froze, his hands suspended in midair, his expression unreadable. 

"Auden," he tried again, gentler this time. "Come here." 

"No," she repeated, more desperate now. "I can't — just don't." 

Her body was rejecting the comfort. It always had. No one had held her when her father died. No one had reached for her, had whispered that she wasn't alone. She had cried in this very bathroom before, so many nights, wrapped in her own arms, pressing her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. She had never let anyone hold her in her grief. Because if she did, she might completely fall apart. 

She pressed her palms into her eyes, as if she could force the tears to stop. Her breath was coming too fast, her chest too tight. She felt like she was suffocating, drowning under the weight of it all. 

Then Cillian moved. 

Slowly, carefully, he sat down directly in front of her, his knees pressing against hers. He didn't touch her, didn't say anything — just sat there, watching her fall apart. 

Auden hated it. 

"Go away," she choked out, pushing at his chest weakly. 

He didn't budge. Her hands balled into fists, and she hit him in the chest — once, twice — her strength barely enough to make an impact. But it wasn't about hurting him. It was about pushing him out, keeping him at a distance, keeping herself alone like she had always been. 

Cillian took it. He didn't stop her. He let her shove and hit and cry, his body steady, unmoving, his eyes never leaving her face. 

She let out a ragged sob and hit him again, her hands slamming against his chest, but this time, her strength faltered. 

Cillian caught her wrists. 

She tried to yank away, but he held firm — not rough, not forceful, just there. 

"Auden," he said, her name like an anchor. 

She whimpered, twisting against his grip, trying so hard to fight him, to fight the inevitable collapse she could feel coming. But Cillian wasn't letting go. 

"Stop," she gasped, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please — please, just let me —" 

But she didn't even know what she was asking for anymore. Her body was so exhausted, her chest ached, her heart collapsing. It was enough for Cillian to pull her forward, guiding her into his arms. 

Auden struggled at first, twisting against him, trying to push him away. But he only held her tighter, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her against his chest. His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair. 

"Shh," he murmured against her temple. "I've got you." 

Her body resisted for another moment — one last, desperate attempt to keep the walls up. But the feeling of him against her – the smell of him in her nose – it made her shatter. 

Another choked sob ripped from her throat as she collapsed against him, her fingers twisting into his shirt, clinging like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Cillian held her through it all, murmuring soft things she couldn't make out, his lips pressing against her hair. His hand rubbed slow circles on her back, grounding her, pulling her back from the edge. 

Auden cried into his chest, her body wracked with grief, with exhaustion, with the unbearable weight of missing someone so much it felt like a physical wound. But Cillian didn't move. He didn't try to fix it, didn't tell her to stop crying, didn't let go. 

For the first time since losing her father, someone was holding her in her pain. And for the first time, she let them.