ending [Hard, Chapter Thirty-Two]
December 15, 2047
The air was crisp, a morning when the autumn leaves had turned brittle and their colors saturated, a vibrant orange skittering across the ground like a final celebration. He'd said he wanted it this way, to remain home under the December sun, the month he’d said felt most alive, even in its decay.
The final diagnosis had come eight months earlier: stage IV liver cancer, a complication likely seeded by years of gout medications, a statin, and the strain of frequent indulgence. The cancer had been silent, hiding in the shadows of his otherwise meticulous health markers, until the pain in his upper abdomen could no longer be ignored. A scan confirmed the worst-metastases to the bones and lungs.
At 80, his body was still lean and disciplined, a testament to decades of running and strength training, but cancer doesn’t bargain with muscle. Treatment was offered, but he declined anything beyond palliative care. "Why fight for a little more time when the fight itself would take it from me?" he had said to his partner, K, who understood. They had always been aligned in their approach to life: reflective, deliberate, open-handed with each other’s decisions.
By September, his world had narrowed. Walking became laborious, though he insisted on stepping outside each day, even if only to sit in the garden. Astrid’s successor-a grizzled orange tabby named Hugo-was never far, curling against his lap as if anchoring him to the world.
On his last day, he asked K to open the windows so he could hear the breeze rustling through the leaves. The morphine pump had muted the pain, but his breaths came slower, shallower. The hospice bot noted the telltale signs of Cheyne-Stokes breathing. His heart was preparing to stop.
At 3:42 p.m., under the golden light of a December sun, he exhaled for the last time. His partner was holding his hand, and Hugo was tucked against his chest, purring softly. There were no dramatic final words-just the quiet certainty of an ending that had been met with intention.
Later, his ashes were scattered among the roots of the great oak tree in the yard. A small brass plaque was placed at its base, engraved with words he had chosen: “There is no meaning. There is only this.”
And as the seasons turned, the tree grew, its leaves falling each autumn, crunching under the feet of children who ran through the yard, unaware of the nonbinary person who had lived, pondered, and quietly stopped beneath its boughs.
It's about learning to die without them.
The air was crisp, a morning when the autumn leaves had turned brittle and their colors saturated, a vibrant orange skittering across the ground like a final celebration. He'd said he wanted it this way, to remain home under the December sun, the month he’d said felt most alive, even in its decay.
The final diagnosis had come eight months earlier: stage IV liver cancer, a complication likely seeded by years of gout medications, a statin, and the strain of frequent indulgence. The cancer had been silent, hiding in the shadows of his otherwise meticulous health markers, until the pain in his upper abdomen could no longer be ignored. A scan confirmed the worst-metastases to the bones and lungs.
At 80, his body was still lean and disciplined, a testament to decades of running and strength training, but cancer doesn’t bargain with muscle. Treatment was offered, but he declined anything beyond palliative care. "Why fight for a little more time when the fight itself would take it from me?" he had said to his partner, K, who understood. They had always been aligned in their approach to life: reflective, deliberate, open-handed with each other’s decisions.
By September, his world had narrowed. Walking became laborious, though he insisted on stepping outside each day, even if only to sit in the garden. Astrid’s successor-a grizzled orange tabby named Hugo-was never far, curling against his lap as if anchoring him to the world.
On his last day, he asked K to open the windows so he could hear the breeze rustling through the leaves. The morphine pump had muted the pain, but his breaths came slower, shallower. The hospice bot noted the telltale signs of Cheyne-Stokes breathing. His heart was preparing to stop.
At 3:42 p.m., under the golden light of a December sun, he exhaled for the last time. His partner was holding his hand, and Hugo was tucked against his chest, purring softly. There were no dramatic final words-just the quiet certainty of an ending that had been met with intention.
Later, his ashes were scattered among the roots of the great oak tree in the yard. A small brass plaque was placed at its base, engraved with words he had chosen: “There is no meaning. There is only this.”
And as the seasons turned, the tree grew, its leaves falling each autumn, crunching under the feet of children who ran through the yard, unaware of the nonbinary person who had lived, pondered, and quietly stopped beneath its boughs.
It's about learning to die without them.