Waiting for our Reunion

The old man sat on the edge of his bed, the twilight pressing gently through the window, laying long shadows across the floor. His fingers, worn and trembling, traced the outline of a photograph that had grown soft with age. Her face smiled back at him — her eyes full of light, her laughter forever caught in that still frame. His daughter.

He hadn’t spoken aloud in days, not since the last visitor had left with eyes full of pity and promises they’d never keep. Now, with the house silent and the end near, he found his voice again — not loud, but sure, like a whisper carried by the wind.

“My words and deeds are coming to an end,” he said softly, more to the photo than the room. “A past folded up and put away.”

He felt it, that subtle thinning between here and somewhere else — the veil growing sheer. Regrets came and went like tides, but the deepest ache was her absence. She had gone before him, stolen by the cruel silence of time. He’d spoken to her every night since, as though she could still hear, as though death had not truly ended anything, only delayed it.

“This, my pause,” he whispered, closing his eyes, “before passing into other realms...”

He saw her then, not with his eyes, but with whatever sense lives beyond the body. Running barefoot in fields of golden grass, arms outstretched, laughing, waiting. The ache in his chest lifted, replaced by something warm. Familiar.

“…new explorations, old faces waiting for our reunion.”

And with a final breath that sounded almost like a sigh of relief, he let go. The photograph slipped from his fingers and settled on the floor. Her smile still shining.