She could hear the soft shoes of the nurse treading over cool hospital hallways. She knew the nurse was coming for her, but let the nurse come over and put a hand on her back.

"Mrs. Leningham, you can come in now." Why? Why give her a last look. The pain she was bearing now was more than enough. She had already given up long before the nurse came. She was sure she could hear the droning sound of the heart monitor, an ill reminder of the death that had come over her daughter.

"Right through here." The nurse ushered her into a small, white room. No windows, not even on the door so nobody should have to see what was inside. The nurse joined the side of the doctor and the pair remained silent for the rest of the time being. She took a seat by her daughter's bed. The bed was clearly made for an adult; her small body nearly sunk into the blankets and pillows. She rubbed her hand over her daughter's head, smoothing the hair away from her face.

"Mom," she said. Her voice was not weak, but it was what was happening on the inside of her daughter that was so frightening. "Where are Grandma and Grandpa?" The question had been asked so many times, but now, on the brink of death, it had a much different meaning. "I mean, where are they really?"

"I don't know, sweetheart."

"You always say they're up in Heaven."

"I do," she admitted, her eyes growing heavy with the weight of water.

"You say they're in Heaven, but sometimes I see them. They come and talk to me. Do you ever talk to them?" her daughter asked, feeling almost a little embarrassed to admit it.

"Sometimes when I'm having a bad day, they come and talk to me," her mother said, her voice soft and comforting. The girl smiled weakly.

"I see them a lot now and days." The mother, unable to contain herself any longer, shed a single tear, but she bowed her head down. Her daughter did not need to leave knowing she made her mother cry. "Mom, I promise that when you have a bad day, I'll come and talk to you. Okay?"

"Okay. That would make me feel better." She took her daughter's hand in hers and sat on the small stool beside the hospital bed. The droning sound of the heart monitor was an indicator of her daughter's fading life. The intervals of silence grew longer and longer. That's when it was over.

"I'm so sorry," were the only words said after. Words hard like the person who spoke them. Hardened from years of watching people pass into another place, leaving those who still wanted them behind.