The change came softly.
It wasn't dramatic. No collapse, no rushing to call a doctor. Just small things at first—like Ian needing more time to catch his breath after a walk, or leaning against the doorframe for a little longer before stepping outside.
His knees bent slower now. His breath caught sooner. His world was shrinking, quietly.
The others noticed. But no one said anything. Not yet.
The air in Willowmere was beginning to shift, too. The first leaves had started to fall, twirling from the trees in copper spirals. The evenings were colder, the light more golden. The village, like Ian, was preparing to let go of summer.
On one of those golden evenings, Ian sat beneath the maple tree, wrapped in a thick sweater. A blanket lay across his knees. Aria curled beside him, sketching something in a crinkled notebook. Theo was busy collecting bugs in a glass jar, muttering to himself with great importance.
Elina brought him a cup of tea, and this time, she didn't mention treatment. She just placed it in his hands and kissed the top of his head.
"Thanks, Ma," Ian said softly.
She didn't move for a while. She just stood there, hands in her pockets, watching her son hold warmth between his palms like it was something sacred.
James sat nearby on the steps, reading the newspaper. He didn't look up, but Ian felt his quiet presence. Steady. Solid. There.
Later that evening, Ian helped Mira in the kitchen. Or at least, he tried to. She handed him herbs to chop, but his hands trembled now—just a little. Mira didn't comment. She simply slid the cutting board closer to him and turned the music up.
It was a quiet old jazz song. One of Ian's favorites.
"You remember this?" she asked.
He nodded. "You played it that first night I stayed here. When I couldn't sleep."
"I was trying to calm you," she smiled.
"It worked."
She glanced at him, eyes soft. "You've been quieter lately."
"I'm tired."
She stirred the pot slowly. "Scared?"
"No," Ian said. Then after a beat, "Not of dying. Just of missing what's still to come."
She nodded, setting down her spoon.
"I think you've seen more than most do in eighty years."
"Maybe," he said. "But I still wish I had more."
That night, a soft rain began to fall.
Ian stepped out to the porch, holding his blanket tight around his shoulders. His legs ached more now. His body was beginning to whisper of limits he could no longer ignore.
The rain was gentle—the kind that sounded like memory on the roof.
It sounded like childhood. Like the rhythm of windows in the old house, back when he still believed time was endless.
Mira joined him again, this time with two mugs of tea. She didn't speak. She just passed him his and sat down beside him.
After a while, Ian broke the silence.
"I feel it," he said.
Mira turned. "Feel what?"
"The tide. Going out."
He didn't cry. He didn't falter. He simply said it the way you might talk about stars appearing in the sky. Soft. Inevitable. Full of grace.
They sat that way for a long time.
And inside the house, James tucked Theo in. Elina braided Aria's hair. Alisha read in the corner, her fingers slowing on the page. Leon passed by the kitchen, stealing a second cookie like he used to when they were young.
Life, for a moment, was still.
And Ian, watching the rain, let it wash over him.
He wasn't ready to say goodbye.
But he had already begun to let go.