He brought her books she never finished, flowers she couldn’t smell, and stories from the outside world that made her smile. Some nights, when she was too nauseous to sleep, he’d read softly until her breathing evened out.
When she apologized for how tired he looked, he’d squeeze her hand and say, “Don’t be silly. I’m exactly where I should be.” But money crept into their conversations like a third presence — quiet at first, then impossible to ignore. “The landlord called again,” he said one morning, his tone too calm. “Just a mix-up, I’ll handle it.”