The room grew quiet, and then grew quieter still. I held your hand the way you held mine when the world was too loud and I was too small. But this time the warmth did not stay. It left slowly, like morning light moving from a room without permission. I did not know a hand could feel so light, and still hold so much. I closed your eyes with the tips of my fingers, the way you used to close mine when I pretended to sleep. You were not pretending now. And I did not know how to do it right. Stay, stay, stay— but the hand did not answer. Hold, hold, hold— but the cold came anyway. Still, I stayed with you, because you never left me first. There was no great final word, only the sound of our breathing, and then just mine. I pulled the blanket to your chest, not to warm you, but because I did not know what else to do with hands that had already said goodbye. I have crossed rivers and mountains to come back, only to learn that the farthest distance is the few inches between my fingers and yours, when yours can no longer hold back. Stay, stay, stay— but the hand did not answer. Hold, hold, hold— but the cold came anyway. Still, I stayed with you, because you never left me first. They say we are made of dust, but I have never seen dust hold on this long. Maybe that is what love is: not a fire, not a storm— just a hand that does not let go, even after it cannot feel. The room is quiet now. The hand is still. But I am still holding it. Some lessons are learned only in the cold.
