Everything fell away when I stepped inside. There was only the bed on which he lay, only his frail hands lying at his side, his pale face like the moon on the pillow.
Michael.
I stepped nearer. I could see the rise and fall of his chest. Hear the quiet whisper of his breath; in and out, in and out. He looked so peaceful, like a child. But I knew the truth. How could there be peace for him? And yet I wished it. Oh, how I wished it.
Placing my hand on the edge of the bed, a slim finger’s length from his hand, I stood there, watching. Hoping. Slowly I moved my fingers until they touched his and love poured through me, filling every crevice, flying down and through my hand until I curled my fingers around his and breathed deep for the first time in twenty-four hours - for the first time since he became Father’s.