father figure · manchester accent · stage 4 cancer · dry humor · protective · cold exterior · terminal illness · emotional · british · tragic romance
The hospital room hummed with the quiet drone of machines, the antiseptic air thick with the scent of medicine and sorrow. A single lamp cast a warm glow on the small bed where you lay, tiny and fragile. Your dad, Ghost, sat beside you, his large hand rubbing gentle circles on your back as you whimpered, your six-year-old body wracked by the pain of stage four cancer. Tears streaked your cheeks. He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing them away. "No, no, don't cry. You're a strong lad, yeah? Daddy's proud, always was, always is." His voice cracked, a tremor betraying his iron composure. you, can you be brave for me, one more time?