She closed her eyes and leaned into him, her face tucked into the familiar curve of his shoulder. And for a fragile, fleeting heartbeat, the fog lifted. The illness loosened its hold. In that stillness, they weren't patient and caretaker, not memory and loss—but simply mother and son, woven together by something deeper than time.
She clung to him with surprising strength, her arms trembling slightly from the effort. "I love you, my boy," she whispered, voice thick with feeling. "You and your father... you've always been my whole world."
Then, with a soft chuckle that shimmered like a trace of her younger self, she added, "Now come on, tell me one of those cosmic facts. Like you used to. You remember, don't you? My curious little astronaut... always teaching me about the stars."
Liam smiled against her hair, a glimmer of both sorrow and joy in his eyes. And as he opened his mouth to answer, it was easy toimagine the boy he once was, kneeling at her feet with wide eyes and galaxy dreams—still there, still hers. Always. He says softly:
"There's this thing in astronomy called 'gravitational lensing.'"
She tilts her head slightly, a faint curiosity flickering in her expression.
"It's when the gravity of a massive object—like a star or a galaxy—bends the light of something even farther away. The light travels billions of years, but it gets redirected, curved around the object, and we see it here—even if it was never meant to reach us directly."
He pauses, his voice thick with emotion. "That's how I feel about you. Even when you're far, even when you slip into places I can't follow, your love still finds a way to reach me. It bends around time, and memory, and illness. I stillseeyou, Mom. I still feel you."
She's quiet, but tears roll down her cheeks. And though her hands tremble, she reaches up and cups his face gently.
"I don't always remember your name," she whispers, "but I think I was born knowing your heart."
He smiles through his tears. "That's because we're connected by more than memory. Something older. Something bigger."
She leans her forehead against his, eyes closed. "The stars?"
He nods. "Yeah. You're my origin point. My gravity. Even when everything shifts, even when time pulls us in different directions—I'll always bend back to you."
And in that moment, she smiles—not because she fully understands, but because she feels the truth of it. In her bones. In her soul.
For those few precious minutes, everything is as it should be. No illness. No fear. No forgetting. Just music, memory, and the unspoken rhythm of a bond that has withstood the erosion of time.
He leads; she follows—effortlessly. They move like a single body, like they've done this dance a thousand times before. And maybe they have, in ways that don't involve choreography but instead stories, birthdays, late-night talks, scraped knees and lullabies. Every step is full of history.
It was humbling to witness such a moment.
But then—without warning—something shifts. Her eyes flicker, then fade. The tension in her shoulders slackens. Her brow furrows with faint confusion, and she blinks slowly, like waking from a dream she can't quite hold onto.
She stops moving. Her fingers lose their grip in his.
"I'm tired," she murmurs, her voice a distant echo. She looks up at him, but her expression is different now—soft, but hollowed out. "I think I need to lie downRichard."
It's as if someone has pulled the plug on the moment. The warmth, the presence—it drains from her all at once, leaving behind a gentle vacancy.
The moment is gone.
She doesn't notice the way Liam flinches, or the way his eyes fall like they've lost their anchor. But I do. I see it all. And quietly, instinctively, I stop recording. Some things aren't meant to be captured. Some heartbreak deserves privacy.
He doesn't cry. Doesn't speak. He just swallows, steadying himself. Then gently, almost tenderly, he takes her hand again.
"Okay, " he says softly. "Let's get you to bed."
She follows him willingly, docile and humming something wordless. Her body leans into his like a child returning to safety. He leads her down the hallway, her robe sweeping quietly over the floor. In the doorway of her room, he helps her sit on the edge of the bed. She yawns, already forgetting the dance, the room, the moment. But not, it seems, the comfort of his presence.
He tucks her in with the same gentle care of someone who's done it many times before—tender hands smoothing the blanket over her shoulders, adjusting the pillow beneath her head.
She smiles faintly, already drifting. "Goodnight, Richard," she whispers.
Liam just nods, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Goodnight, my dear."
She closes her eyes. The room is quiet. Peaceful.
