"Don't leave me, Grandpa." he whispered.
"Send for Lady Tara and Therese. Grandpa would want to see them," Tristan told a servant.
Tristan hoped to speak with Grandpa for the last time. But he lay motionless on his bed, half-seated and propped against the pillows. His eyes no longer opened even when Tristan whispered, "I love you grandpa."
His breaths were shallow and uneven, each weaker than the last. His skin, once vibrant with life, had drained of color. His face had taken on that waxy stillness that comes when the body begins to let go. His lips were dry and cracked, and his hand, though still warm, trembled faintly even in rest.
The physician urged Tristan to speak to his grandpa while he could still hear him. Usually, it's the sense of hearing that goes last.
As much as Tristan wanted to look at Grandpa's face, he couldn't. This was the same look of death and dying at the camp. Every week, the miners held a silent prayer for the dead— some they knew, some they didn't.
