Time, in Willowmere, moved like mist.
Days blurred into one another with the hush of falling leaves and soft footsteps through the orchard. The village remained gentle, cradling Ian's remaining days as if it, too, had made peace with what was coming.
But inside the Calix home, hope still stirred.
Elina tried every few days.
Sometimes it was casual—just a leaflet left near his bed. Sometimes it was a sentence spoken while peeling apples beside him.
"There's a new treatment being trialed, you know. In the city. They say it might slow the disease."
Ian would nod, smile politely, and offer her another slice of fruit.
James said less, but his eyes were a constant request. Whenever Ian coughed, James would flinch, shoulders tensing like a man hearing a clock wind tighter.
Alisha tried once. Just once. She brought him a folder—printouts, statistics, a handwritten note in her sharp cursive:
"If there's even a 2% chance, maybe take it—for us."
He folded the note quietly and tucked it into the back of his notebook. He didn't answer, and she didn't ask again.
They loved him in the only way they knew how—by hoping.
But Ian wasn't hoping anymore.
He was preparing.
He began to write again. Not in journals, but in letters.
Each sealed envelope was marked with a name. Theo. Aria. Elina. James. Mira. Even Alisha. Even Leon.
Sometimes he cried while writing them. Not from fear, but from the weight of having something to say—finally—and knowing it would be read only after he was gone.
He started noticing the little things more. The way Theo's hair flared out in the back when he slept. How Mira always hummed while she cooked, no matter the time of day. The way Leon called him "kid" even now, though they were both grown and graying.
He wasn't trying to hold on anymore.
He was trying to let go gently.
One gray afternoon, Alisha found him sitting alone in the garden, notebook in his lap, pen still.
She sat beside him, silent for a long time. The air smelled of damp soil and rosemary.
"You hate me a little, don't you?" she asked finally.
Ian blinked, surprised. "No."
"You should," she whispered. "I always made you feel small. Like you didn't belong. I was the sister who knew better, who kept distance like it was power. I didn't even come to the hospital the first time you collapsed. I waited until someone said it might be real."
Ian looked at her then—really looked.
"You were scared," he said gently.
Alisha's voice cracked. "I was ashamed. That I didn't know you. That you grew up in the same house and still somehow disappeared right in front of me. I don't deserve your kindness."
"No," Ian said, his voice soft. "But neither did I deserve your coldness. And we're here now, Alisha. I don't need you to carry guilt. I just want you to carry the truth of this moment."
She let out a long, shaking breath.
"I love you," she said. "I've never said it. But I do. I always have. I just didn't know how to show it when you were fading."
He reached out and squeezed her hand.
"Then show it now," he said. "Stay with me. Laugh with me. That's how I'll remember you."
One afternoon, Elina found him folding laundry—clumsily, but sincerely.
"I would've helped," she said, setting down the basket she'd been carrying.
"I know," Ian replied. "But you won't always be here to help."
She hesitated. "Ian…"
"I'm not doing this to make you sad," he said softly. "I'm doing this so you'll know I tried to make it easier—for you. For everyone."
Elina blinked hard and looked away. "You're not gone yet."
"I know," Ian said. "That's why I'm telling you now. So later, when I'm not here, you'll remember I didn't run from it. I walked toward it."
That night, Mira watched him from the kitchen doorway as he tucked Aria into bed.
The little girl looped her arms around his neck and whispered, "Promise you'll always be here."
Ian kissed her forehead and whispered back, "Always in the ways that matter."
He sat with her until she slept, brushing her curls back gently, memorizing the shape of her breath.
Days passed.
Each morning, Ian helped Noah in the garden. Not because he had strength—because he still had time.
Each evening, he sat outside as the sun dipped below the trees. He didn't speak much. But his silence had changed.
It wasn't heavy anymore.
It was reverent.
One evening, the sky was streaked with pinks and purples, and the family gathered for dinner outside. Laughter spilled across the table. Mira had made lentil stew. Theo tried to feed his to the dog. Aria made up a song about "Uncle Ian's Terrible Socks."
Elina leaned over and placed her hand on Ian's arm.
"We don't want to lose you," she said gently.
Ian turned to her, and for the first time, his eyes weren't sad. They were steady.
"I'm not yours to lose," he said. "I was never really gone. You just didn't see me until I started to fade."
She swallowed hard and nodded.
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Ian stepped out onto the porch, the night thick with silence and stars. He sat with his blanket, notebook on his lap, but didn't write.
He just looked.
After a long while, he began to speak—softly, as though to the stars.
"I never wanted a big ending," he said. "I just wanted to be remembered by something quiet. Like how the light hits the floor in the morning. Or the sound of Aria laughing at her own stories. Or Mira's soup."
He paused.
"I think I spent most of my life waiting for someone to pull me out. But no one came."
He paused again, letting the words hang in the hush.
"That the saving didn't come from outside," he whispered.
"It came from the boy who left. From the man who forgave. From the people who, somehow, still came back."
Behind him, Mira stood quietly in the doorway, listening. She didn't interrupt. She just folded her arms and let the night hold them both.
Ian looked up at the sky and smiled.
"I'm not afraid of dying," he whispered. "But I'm so damn glad I remembered how to live."