﹐ ☓ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ. ᴀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɢɪꜰᴛ
﹐ ☓ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ. ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ & ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ
﹐ ☓ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ. ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 25
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The living room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater in the corner. The Christmas tree's lights cast a soft glow across the room as the three of them sat together. The evening had been long—emotional, cathartic—but now, as they were winding down, Beckett's mom cleared her throat. She had been holding something in her lap, wrapped neatly in brown paper with a faded ribbon tied around it.

"I wanted to wait until now to give you these," she said softly, her voice trembling just a little. "They're... from your dad."

Beckett and Zoelle froze. For a moment, neither of them could speak, their eyes fixed on the packages in her hands. She handed one to each of them, her expression a mixture of sadness and warmth.

Zoelle carefully unwrapped hers first, peeling back the paper to reveal a journal with a leather cover. Her fingers traced the edges, her brows furrowing as she flipped it open. Inside, the pages were filled with their father's handwriting. Notes, thoughts, little stories—some about her, some about Beckett, some just about life. Zoelle's eyes filled with tears as she ran her hand over the words.

Beckett's package felt heavier. His hands shook slightly as he untied the ribbon and pulled back the paper. Inside was a watch, simple yet elegant, with a worn leather strap. It was unmistakably their father's. But there was something else. Nestled beneath the watch was a small tape recorder.

Beckett sat back on the couch, his fingers still lightly touching the tape recorder his mother had handed him. The gift his father had left was heavier than he anticipated—not the weight of the object, but in the sheer amount of emotion it carried with it.

His mom had been quiet the entire evening, watching them, her face painted with a mixture of sadness and love. Finally, after what felt like hours, she spoke softly, "Your dad... he knew. He knew his time was running out, and he didn't want to leave you without something. So, he made these... recordings."

His thumb hovered over the play button, and with a deep breath, he pressed it.

The tape crackled, followed by a familiar voice—the one that had comforted him for so many years, the voice he never thought he'd hear again.

"Hey, Beckett..." His dad's voice came through the speaker, soft and measured, almost as if he was speaking directly to him in that very moment. "I'm not sure how to start this... or how much of this I can get through, but I know you're probably feeling a little lost right now. Maybe a lot lost. And that's okay.

I've been sick for a while now, and I don't know what's coming, but I want you to know that no matter what, I'm proud of you. I'm proud of everything you've become. You've always been strong, Beckett, even when you didn't see it.

And Zoelle... She's going to need you, but you're going to need her too. You're family. And nothing will ever change that. I just... I just want you both to remember that I'm with you, even when you can't hear me. I might not be there in person, but I'll always be here, in your hearts."

The recording paused, and Beckett found himself sitting there, frozen, his chest tight. His father's words lingered in the air, but the voice clicked back on.

"It's been a while since we've talked. I'm doing this now because I know the day will come when you'll need something from me. So I'm leaving these for you. You won't have me around to tell you things, to support you the way I always tried to. But you'll have these recordings. You'll have this voice.

I want you to know that if nothing else, I've always loved you. Even if I wasn't the best at saying it... I love you. Always."

The tape clicked off, and Beckett sat in the silence, the weight of his father's words crashing over him. There were more recordings, he realized. His father had spent the 2022, ever since his first hospitalization, recording messages for him—messages for Zoelle, too.

But this one... this one was enough for now. It felt like his dad had somehow known, somehow prepared them for a world without him. It wasn't a goodbye, not really. It was a promise to always be with them, in whatever way he could.

Beckett wiped his eyes and turned the tape recorder over, his heart full but also feeling lighter than it had in a long time.

Beckett stared at the tape recorder, his fingers lightly brushing over the small buttons as his father's voice filled the room again. The familiar, comforting tone of his dad seemed to echo in his chest, each word wrapping around his heart. But no matter how many times he played it, the pain didn't go away. It only deepened.

Tears fell silently onto his lap, staining the fabric of his pants as his father's words reverberated in his mind. "I'm proud of you, Beckett. Always have been... always will be. You're stronger than you know..."

The words were meant to comfort, to reassure him that his father was still there in some way. But the reality of the silence that followed, the absence that had settled so deeply in his life, made it harder to breathe. His father wasn't there. Not physically. And no matter how many times he pressed play, it couldn't change that.

Beckett closed his eyes, his hand gripping the recorder now as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to something solid. His father's voice filled the air again, but this time Beckett couldn't hold back the sobs. Each sound of his dad's voice felt like a reminder of everything he'd lost, but also a reminder of everything his dad had hoped for him—everything he still believed Beckett could be.

And so Beckett sat there, alone with the sound of his father's voice, letting the tears fall until there were no more to shed. The pain was still there, but so was the love. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep moving forward.

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