Yours Truly, Austin Post - Post Malone

26

The house carries a quiet sorrow now, a lingering chill that no amount of sunshine can chase away. Ava notices how Gracie’s mother and sister constantly draw the curtains wide, almost desperately, as if light alone might sweep away the weight that has settled into every corner. But it doesn’t. The shadow remains. It’s not just the absence of sunlight it’s the absence of her.

Gracie no longer floats barefoot through the hallways in her bright summer dresses, no longer hums soft melodies as Austin helps her to the kitchen or curls beside him in the den. Those moments are gone.

For the past two weeks, Gracie has moved only between three places - her bed, the bathroom, and the patio. Even those short distances are unbearable now, her body too frail, her pain too consuming. Austin carries her, cradling her like something sacred and fragile. His arms the only ones she trusts, the only ones that can lift her without making her cry out.

He bathes her with tender, aching care, gently brushing her hair and dressing her in soft, warm clothes that make her small frame look even smaller. Every morning, he paints her nails a new color, just like she used to, delicate blues, pale pinks, soft lilacs. Hope sits beside them, often picking the color herself, smiling sadly, aware of the finality laced in each of these rituals.

Austin tries to coax her to eat, whispering encouragements, spooning food with hope in his eyes, but she only manages a few bites. Ava knows she does it for him. Just for him. Not because she’s hungry.

Most of the day, she stays curled in Austin’s lap, her cheek resting against his chest as if listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat to keep her tethered to this world. The rest of the family flows in and out of the room like whispers, soft and reverent.

In the afternoons, sunlight pours through the patio doors, casting a warm glow over the carpet. Ava and Hope sit there, pretending to read, pages barely turning, while the mothers speak in low voices near the bed. The fathers play chess at the foot of it, their quiet moves a silent promise to keep things normal, at least on the surface.

Austin’s brothers and Dre have taken on the children, tending to the noise and chaos of nieces and nephews, keeping them away from the sadness that thickens the air like smoke. They know their time to support Austin will come, just not yet.

Austin never lets Gracie out of his sight. The only moments they spend alone are in the early mornings, when he carries her out to the patio wrapped in blankets. It’s still their time, just the two of them, silent and sacred.

Ava still makes Gracie her tea every morning, rosehip, her favorite, but the mug always sits untouched, growing cold. And she still snips the elastic in Austin’s hair so he can loosen his bun, offering it to Gracie like a ritual. Gracie no longer has the strength to comb it, but Austin helps her lift her trembling hand to run through the thick frizz she used to adore.

The house isn’t just grieving it’s holding its breath. Waiting.

And inside it, wrapped in love and loss, they all carry her, bit by bit, to wherever she’s going.

One particular morning, Ava wakes to a stillness so profound it wraps around her like a warning. The air is bitter cold, seeping into her skin and settling in her bones. Outside her door, the comforting hum of routine carries on family shuffling about, preparing for the day. Children’s footsteps, clinking cutlery, quiet conversations. It’s all normal. Ordinary.

But something feels off.

Ava pulls herself from the cocoon of her bed, her limbs stiff, her chest heavy. She moves through the house like a ghost, silent, watching Austin’s brothers gather the kids for school. The parents are in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, slicing fruit, pouring coffee. Smiles appear on faces, but they’re thin and tight. Everyone is waiting for something, even if they don’t know what.