Every so often, Daniel looked towards his grandfather, flicked a glance at Mel, then turn away. The sense of unavoidable loss in the room covered them like a thunderous cloud ready to burst, even though Sir Arthur was already lost to them. His heart continued to beat, and blood still trickled through his veins, but he would not come out of this. The likelihood that at his age it would go longer than a few days was medically improbable given the health complications he had endured these past weeks. The doctor had said three days at the most. Daniel came over to her and pulled up a padded chair. He braced his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Mel raised her hand to touch him, to offer what comfort she could, then quickly let her hand drop. She clasped them tightly together in her lap. A normal wife would have touched him. Would have placed her hand across her husband’s back as if to say, “I’m here,” and he would have taken the comfort. Wrapped himself in her and let himself be held to absorb the grief.
