On the ninth night, I slept in a chair beside his bed.
Shortly before sunrise, he woke and asked me to open the curtains.
The sky was turning pale pink.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I’m not talking about the sky.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was crying.
“That was almost romantic.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grew serious.
“Thank you for saying yes.”
“Thank you for asking.”
“No one had ever chosen me without wanting something.”
“I wanted something.”
He looked worried.
“What?”
“One more chess game.”
“You still wouldn’t win.”
“We’ll never know.”
He smiled and closed his eyes.
Carl died the following evening with my hand in his.
His final words were simple.
“I’m not alone.”
The Knock After the Funeral
Carl’s funeral was small.
Father Michael led the service. Rachel stood beside me. A few hospice employees attended, along with several people I didn’t recognize.
They wore expensive suits and kept glancing at me.
One older woman stared openly at the silver band on my finger. Her expression held no sympathy.
Only anger.
After the burial, a black car waited near the cemetery gate.
The older woman climbed into it without speaking to me.
I was too overwhelmed to care.
