“I filled out hospital paperwork this morning. Every space marked ‘next of kin’ was blank.” His fingers rested beside the velvet box. “I am asking whether my last chapter can have someone holding my hand.”
I sat opposite him.
“You deserve more than pity, Carl.”
“I agree.”
“Then why me?”
His gaze moved toward the bookcase.
“Because you never make kindness feel like charity.”
A quiet ache formed behind my ribs.
I had spent years volunteering beside people nearing the end of their lives. I understood the danger of confusing compassion with love.
But what I felt for Carl was not obligation.
It felt like recognizing a room in a house I had never entered.
“All right,” I said.
The following afternoon, a priest married us in Carl’s living room.
When his hand shook too badly to slide the ring onto my finger, I guided it with my own.
He released a breath as though he had finally reached shore.
For ten days, I was his wife.
I cooked while he gave instructions from a chair.
We watched old movies.
I read aloud whenever his eyes became tired.
On the eighth night, I found him holding a worn novel against his chest.
Its cover had faded beyond recognition.
“What book is that?” I asked.
“My favorite.”
“May I see?”
He tightened his arms around it like a shield.
“Not yet.”
I teased him for keeping secrets.
He smiled but refused to hand it over.
