Page 60 of Wistful Whispers

Marcella’s hand brushes mine, accidental, maybe. I take it as a sign and thread her fingers with mine. She grips me tightly and we stand there. Two ghosts in a room already haunted by what could’ve been.

Should’ve been.

The priest’s voice breaks the silence. “Before we begin the final prayers, Miranda’s parents wanted to share something with all of you.”

Myra steps forward, a sheet of notebook paper clutched between her shaking fingers. Her voice quivers. “She wrote this last spring right before her operation. It was an assignment for her Language Arts class. We didn’t think much of it at the time…now, it feels like she might have known.”

She clears her throat. “It's called'If I Were a Whisper.'”

If I were a whisper, I’d sneak into hearts

To leave little glimmers

Of light in the dark.

I’d ride on the wind

When the thunder is loud,

And curl into corners

When no one’s around.

I’d never be seen,

But I’d always be near—

A whisper of hope

To chase away fear.

Mychestcavesin.Tears flow freely down my face.

Daniel, who’s been pretty stoic this afternoon, can’t hold it together either. He lets out a harsh, guttural sob, pressing his face into his wife’s shoulder. Myra shakes in his arms.

My throat burns. I have to look away.

The priest steps forward again, calm. Steady. “We now commend Miranda’s spirit.”

Several colleagues take charge and then the machines stop. Miranda slips away quickly.

Though I knew exactly what would happen, it’s like a punch to the chest. The absence of sound. Of breath. Of everything.

Marcella clutches my hand, silently sobbing.

Daniel turns to us, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. “Thank you both. For being here. For everything.”

Marcella nods, her voice gone.

“She mattered to me,” I barely manage to utter.

Marcella and I leave the room so her family can have a few final moments of privacy before they transport Miranda away. I head toward the east wing—one of the older parts of the hospital currently closed for renovation.

It’s instinct, not strategy. I need to be somewhere quiet and away from anyone I know. Somewhere away from the grief clinging to my skin.

Marcella follows, silent.

We step into a vacant room, air tinged with a faint scent of antiseptic. The equipment’s been cleared out. The bed and furniture remains.

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