Did you ever held the hand of someone who is dying? That experience, it stays with you. The hand, the hand is a bit cold, possibly from the poor circulation. There isn't much of a grip, save maybe for the faintest pressure at the finger tips. You hold on, shifting the grip of your hand so that those finger tips would find your pulse, willing your pulse to guide theirs.
You hold that hand long enough, you too can feel faintly the thready pulse; and chances are you will begin to deceive yourself by trying to will the next one and the one after that, hoping they would become strong, and in a way they do as you become more attune to them, but it remains a thready pulse nonetheless.
The hiss of the ventilators, the steady beeps of monitors, none of that matter as you slowly phase them out, honing in on that sacred rhythm between breaths and pulse. That's your whole world right there. Life and death connected tenuously by the barest touch.
And then it happens, a minute twitch, a sudden calm, followed by an equal sudden slack, even before the machines announced it, you know. It is peace shattered by the wails and sirens of the monitors echoed in your heart but unspoken unvoiced as you held on tighter to a hand that will not return the favour ever again.
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