Marit sat on a footstool beside the lounger, one hand resting on Sina’s blanket, when she suddenly looked up. At first it was only the faintest flicker in her gaze, then she leaned in slightly. The breath beneath the blanket had changed, faster yet shallower, like a gentle panting carried from far away.
Marit knew that sound. She had heard it many times before, in the final hours of those about to depart and not return. It was a rhythmic struggle, a slow battle for breath that could stretch on for hours and yet end abruptly, often in the middle of an inhale.
Katja followed Marit’s gaze, set her cup down, and leaned forward. “But maybe there’s still something we can do. We can’t just let her…”
Marit slowly straightened. She returned to the table, her steps soft on the gravel, as if she didn’t want to tear the silence. She sat with the others, folded her hands before her, and let a faint, sorrowful smile appear, more a shadow of comfort than the thing itself. “Give her space for herself. That’s all she needs right now.”
Without asking, she poured coffee for them all.
“This is the beginning of something that can last for hours, maybe. No one ever knows.”
The others nodded. They would stay, each offering the closeness they could give, and the distance Sina needed. A quiet vigil, a fellowship of endurance.
Katja leaned back. The helplessness gnawed at her. Her fingers clutched the cup tighter, as if she could anchor herself in its warmth, as if it might shield her from the cold settling inside.
A brief glance moved between them, searching for words and finding only silence.
“She’s breathing like…” Sven never finished the sentence. His voice broke, as if he too realized that words were no longer enough.
Henning stood a little apart, his hands jammed deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the narrow chest rising and falling with restless effort.
Then Konrad whispered, voice rough and heavy with tenderness. “I’d hoped we’d have more time.”
Marit shook her head, slow and almost solemn. “That time is gone.”