MY GRANDPA WHISPERED A NAME NOBODY KNEW BEFORE HE DIED
The hospice nurse looked away when my grandpa’s eyes snapped open right before the end, a look I hadn’t seen in weeks.
He grabbed my hand, fingers surprisingly strong and cold against my skin, pulling me down hard close to the bedside so our faces were almost touching. That awful hospital disinfectant smell was thick in the air, mixing with something else I couldn’t place – maybe dust, or just the smell of something ending. The hushed beeping from the machines was the only thing breaking the silence besides his shallow, rattling breath.
His eyes snapped open, wide and completely focused, not clouded over like they had been for weeks. He pulled my face even closer, his voice barely a whisper that scraped against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “It wasn’t an accident,” he rasped, the words wet and difficult. “Tell her. Tell Elara.”
Elara. Who the hell is Elara? I have never, EVER heard that name mentioned in our family, not once. Was he completely hallucinating in his final moments? My mom was just sitting there in the armchair, softly sobbing, completely oblivious to what he was saying right next to her, lost in her own quiet grief. But his eyes… his eyes weren’t confused or distant. They were pleading, desperate. “Find her,” he begged, his grip tightening painfully on my hand. “She needs to know the *real* truth about that night.”
My mind was absolutely spinning – accident? What night? What truth? Who is this Elara? Before I could even stammer out a single word, the door to the room burst open with a loud, startling bang and the doctor stepped in quickly, his face tight and he looked straight at *me*.
My mom looked up sharply and said, “Who was he talking about?”
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