Samuel Scott, a man who despises Christmas, after a terrible fall is paired in a hospital room with Amy Bell, a woman longing for carols and festive decorations.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
🎶
Another Year by FINNEAS
🎶
Amy Bells passed away three hours after I left her.
A nurse came by, this time having the decency to inform me. The news paired with a sorrowful expression. I had a second to myself before my parents rushed through the door. They run about, collecting things, asking repeatedly if I was okay, and in my numbness, I could only utter a 'yes'. I slipped out of the hospital as they waited for the doctor to sign papers. 'I need some fresh air', I said and made my father take me outside, mom in her confusion allowing it without further conversation.
I was in the parking lot area, workers struggling to remove the snow from the lots and roads so they could be accessed, and breathed in deeply. The spot I acquired was by the few waiting chairs screwed to the ground, my backrest touching the wall. My mind was blank, not a thought pressing it as I watched with a faraway expression the bare enormous tree standing in a small garden.
"The doctors would have ordered you to have a walk there if the weather was nice."
Twenty minutes had ticked since I had heard a clear voice, the last one from my dad as heleft, most muffled by the wind, the distance. The sound of a lighter followed Miles' speech, my brows frowning. "You smoke."
"Occasionally." He muttered, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling.
I had had none in years, but fuck it... "Can I have one, too?" The situation required it.
The packet was in front of me after some shuffling, open and inviting. The thin paper that touched my lips had lost its familiarity, contrary to the initial smoke entering my lungs. I savored the taste.
"Did they tell you?" His cautious tone sat on my chest.
I looked back at the tree, blinking hard. "Yes, they did."
He moved about, his coat loud as he leaned on the building. "How are you?"
"Fine." The answer broke out immediately, but not harshly. More poisonous puffs invading my system.
I caught him nod, and for some time we were silent, me watching the branches sway in the breeze, smoking by him, all in the ambiance of shovels and motors.
"Was it..." I began and stopped, scared of the response. "Did it hurt? When she..."
"She was on morphine."
"Is that a no?" I pushed.
"She just fell asleep."
His words comforted me in a way. "And was she alone?"
