For months, their daughter lay in a coma, the doctors offering no hope. Ready to say their final goodbyes, her parents stood by her hospital bed one last time.
Fate had a cruel way of toying with the Wilsons. For years, James and Eleanor had longed for the sound of childrens laughter in their quiet home. Theyd paced the sterile halls of fertility clinics, hands clasped tight, only to receive sympathetic smiles and solemn shakes of the head. Eleanor had sought solace in holy places, even making a pilgrimage to the ancient stones of Canterbury, with James, her ever-faithful companion, beside her. Yet heaven remained silent.
At last, weary from years of waiting, they made peace with a different path. They would build their family through adoptionnot just one child, but two. Two little girls to fill the silence.
On the morning they were meant to drive to the next county, to the childrens home theyd corresponded with for months, the house hummed with nervous anticipation. Eleanor was in the kitchen packing sandwiches when the scent of her usual Sunday roastusually comfortingsuddenly turned her stomach. A wave of nausea sent her rushing to the loo, hand clamped over her mouth.
The trip was called off. Instead of heading toward a new future, they drove to the local surgery. There, in a small, unremarkable room, fate played its final joke: Eleanor was pregnant. Sixteen weeks along.
James nearly lost his mind. His roar of joy echoed through the clinic. He hugged the doctor, the nurse, even a potted fern in the corner. The midwife, a no-nonsense woman, threatened to call security if he didnt stop rearranging her carefully ordered leaflets on prenatal care. From that day, their lives revolved around one thing: the miracle on its way. James became a protector, scouring the farmers market like a man possessed, interrogating vendors about pesticides and returning with the finest organic produce for his wife. Eleanor, a woman with a masters in education, found herself being lectured on the virtues of spinach by a man whose culinary expertise had previously peaked at reheating takeaways.
A few weeks later, fate dealt another hand. The ultrasound revealed not one heartbeat, but two. Twins.
Eleanors pregnancy was gruelling. Her age made it harder, and she spent most of the second and third trimesters on bed rest. But the struggle vanished the moment she heard their first cries. Two perfect, beautiful girls, identical in every way. They named them after their grandmothers: Elizabeth and Charlotte. Lizzie and Lottie.
Life became a whirlwind of sleepless nights, nappies, and a love so deep it hurt. The girls grew up healthy and bright, often seeming years ahead of their peers. They were two halves of one soul, yet their spirits were worlds apart.
Lizzie was a force of nature, blazing through life with infectious energy, collecting friends like treasures. She was sporty, competitive, and endlessly social, her laughter the soundtrack of their home. Lottie, though, was like a quiet stream. She found peace in books, in the garden, in creating things with her hands. She was a homebody, content in her own world. But their bond was unbreakable. One couldnt imagine life without the other.
Eighteen years passed in a blink. The girls grew into stunning young women. Lizzie, the swimmer, had travelled the country for competitions, with admirers lining up for her attention. She navigated it all with playful ease, never cruel but always in charge. It was at a national meet in Cornwall that she met Daniel, a fellow athlete with kind eyes that saw only her. A whirlwind of texts and train rides led to one decision: they were getting married.
Lottie, true to form, lived a quieter life. Her world was her family and a menagerie of rescued animals. Her passion was cooking, turning simple ingredients into feasts. The family would groan in mock despair, “Lottie, not again! How are we meant to stay slim with these smells?” She was a healer, taking in strayskittens with hurt paws, birds with broken wings.
Her most constant companion was Storm, a massive Old English Sheepdog, gifted by her father three years before. The fluffy pup had grown into a hundred-pound giant, fierce-looking but gentle as a lamb. Storm was Lotties shadow, her guardian, her confidant. Despite his size, his only mission was to love, slobbering kisses on anyone within reach.
One warm Saturday, the family gathered. Lizzie and Daniel had filed their marriage papers. A wedding was coming. Daniels parents were due on a video call to finalise plans. The air buzzed with excitementand the bittersweet knowledge that things would change. After the wedding, Daniel was taking Lizzie to a new town, a new life.
“Come on, Lottie!” Lizzie called, grabbing her keys. “Were off to the pub to sort the menu. We need your expert opinion. Cant plan a feast without the chef!”
Daniel started the car, the engine purring. As Lottie stepped out, something in Storm snapped.
The gentle giant became a snarling beast. He hurled himself at the car, barking wildly, clawing at the tyres, blocking their path. He howled, a sound so mournful it sent a chill down Jamess spine.
“Storm, stop!” James yelled, rushing to clip a lead on the frantic dog.
“Youve spoiled him, Lottie,” Lizzie laughed from the passenger seat. “He cant bear to let you out of his sight.”
Lottie didnt answer. A knot of dread twisted in her chest. This wasnt protectivenessit was terror. But she couldnt say no. Not to Lizzie. She slid into the back seat, gave Storm one last sad look through the window, and waved as the car pulled away.
Storm watched them go, then let out one final, heart-wrenching howl. A single tear traced through his shaggy fur. James saw it, and the hairs on his neck stood up. Hed never seen a dog cry before.
Daniel was a confident driver. The hum of the engine, the sunlit road, the sisters chatterit was pure happiness. He took a familiar bend a tad too fast, but the summer road was dry and clear.
Then the lorry appeared.
It came round the corner too wide, its trailer swaying violently. The driver fought the wheel, face twisted in panic, but it was too late. The massive vehicle jackknifed, its trailer swinging across the road like a scythe. It didnt just hit their carit devoured it.
The aftermath was a tangle of metal and silence. Paramedics worked swiftly, the shriek of cutting tools piercing the air. Two bodies lay covered on the roadside. A third, miraculously, still breathed. An ambulance raced back to the city, carrying what remained of Lottie. The doctors fought, but she never woke.
The lorry driver, an old man with a face lined with regret, sat weeping by the road. “I killed them,” he sobbed. “I just closed my eyes for a second…”
Instead of a wedding, there was a funeral.
James and Eleanor stood like statues, grief too vast for tears. But when the first clod of earth hit Lizzies coffin, a raw scream tore from Eleanors throat. She lunged for the grave, and James barely held her back. Daniels father trembled alonehis wife had collapsed from the news.
They had one daughter left, but it brought no comfort. Lottie was a ghost, kept alive by machines. Friends drifted away, afraid of their bottomless sorrow. Hope faded with each passing day.
But one man refused to give up. Dr. Henry Walsh, a brilliant young neurologist, saw more than a lost cause. He saw a life worth fighting for. His colleagues whisperedwas he falling for a sleeping beauty? Perhaps. When he first saw Lottie, fragile as a broken-winged bird, his professional detachment shattered.
Henry gathered the hospitals best surgeons. He proposed a radical, costly operation. Some called it madness. Others, a long shot. But his passion swayed them. He found James and Eleanor in the waiting room, faces hollow with exhaustion.
“Theres a chance,” he said gently. “A new procedure. Its risky, expensive. But its her only hope.”
That faint spark was enough. James sold the car, their valuables, everything. “Better than watching her fade,” he whispered to Eleanor, voice rough.
At home, Storm was dying. He refused food, drank only sips of water. He lay like a statue, head on paws, his decline mirroring Lotties.
The surgery failed.
Henry ripped off his gloves in fury and fled to a stairwell. There, the strong, confident doctor crumpled and wept. It was all for nothing.
The news crushed James and Eleanor. The last ember of hope was gone. They couldnt afford to keep Lottie on the machines. It was time to say goodbye. They walked the hospital corridor, clinging to each other, shuffling toward the final act of love.
As theyd left the house, James unlatched the back gate. “Dont be cross, Ellie,” hed said, voice flat. “Im not coming back
