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The memory came quietly, like a ripple over still water.

They had been in the garden, just the two of them, a lazy golden afternoon cradling them in warmth. Alexander had laid his head on her lap, eyes closed, the kind of peace on his face that only came in rare, fragile moments. Her fingers were in his hair, stroking the dark strands, when he had spoken, not dramatically, not even sadly. Just softly, like it was something he needed her to remember.

“Promise me you’ll keep breathing even when I don’t.”

She hadn’t answered. Her throat had seized with emotion, and the words had become a stone lodged between her ribs.

Now, as she sat beside his bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, she could feel that memory pressing against her like a bruise. He was growing weaker everyday.

It hadn’t been sudden. The change came in whispers; they came as tremors in his fingers, a longer pause before he stood, the way his voice started fading by evening. But now the shift was unmistakable. He was slipping from her, inch by inch, breath by breath.

The mornings no longer brought him out of bed. He remained curled under layers of blankets, the light too harsh for his eyes. When she offered him breakfast, he smiled politely but only took a few bites. When she brought him books, he asked her to read to him instead because his eyes hurt too much and he couldn't hold the book up for long.

His world was shrinking. And so was hers. She refused to leave his side at all.

She helped him sit up. Held the mug to his lips when he was too tired to lift it. Washed his hair carefully when it clung damply to his neck. She fed him spoonful by spoonful, small bites, quiet praise, kisses to his temple.

He was trying so hard not to be weak, trying so hard not to be a burden to her, but he didn't know that she'd do anything and everything for him even if he couldn't lift a single finger.

In those final days, their house turned into a sanctuary for dying and loving.

Sometimes, when he had the strength, he would talk about stuff and make jokes. She would sit across from him, wrapped in a shawl, and let him trace her face again. Those moments were wordless and holy, like prayers between them.

Other days, she read to him. Poetry. The letters Kafka wrote to Milena. Newspaper headlines. Her voice was the anchor he clung to when the days blurred and his eyes grew too heavy to focus.

Nights were the hardest.

He stopped talking as much. When he could no longer find words, she filled the silence. She told him stories about nothing and everything. How she'd started to learn how to cook, she'd ask him if he liked the recipe she had tried out.

She'd talk about the parts of their past which werent so painful to recall. She'd hum old songs. Sometimes she just breathed beside him, letting him know she was still there, still tethered to him even as he slipped further away.

His skin was colder now. His fingers twitched in his sleep.

There were days she thought he might not make it through the night, and when morning came, she clung to him tighter, whispering how grateful she was for one more day, one more hour, one more breath.

This evening, the house was dark. The windows fogged with winter’s breath. Yalda had fallen asleep sitting upright beside their bed, her cheek resting on the mattress, their hands tangled in a loose grip.

It was the softest touch that woke her.

His fingers brushed hers. Barely. A ghost of a gesture.

Her eyes opened immediately, heart already pounding. She sat up quickly and looked at him, his eyes were open, glassy but locked onto hers. His lips moved, struggling to smile, and then....

“Yalda,” he whispered.

It was a breath more than a word. But it was hers.

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his hand, her tears falling fast and without sound. “I’m here,” she choked. “I’m right here.”

He managed a smile, just the corners of his mouth twitching upward, and he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing them against her skin like he was saying goodbye.

Then he closed his eyes. That was the last time she heard her name on his lips.

Morning arrived like a cruel thief.

There was complete stillness, no sound from the bed. No creak of breath. No flutter of fingers. Alexander lay there, peaceful. Too peaceful.

Her heart dropped. Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she reached forward, touched his chest.

Nothing. No rise. No rhythm.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply laid her head on his chest and clung to him, shaking, tears soaking through his shirt as she begged for one more word, one more sign that he was still with her.

But he was gone.

~~

The days after were a haze.

People came; quiet voices, soft footsteps, gentle hands trying to lead her away. She didn’t move. Not until they took his body. Not until they wheeled him out and the space beside her felt like a void, cold and final.

Then the arrangements began. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want flowers or caskets or whispered condolences. She just wanted him.

But still, things moved forward. The world didn’t stop for grief. People offered to help. A few friends called, tons of associates sent their condolences. His lawyer visited. There were documents. Wills. Decisions to be made. She nodded to everything, answered nothing.

Her body moved, but she wasn’t in it.

Someone handed her the clothes he’d worn for their wedding and asked if they should be prepared for the funeral. She stared at the suit like it belonged to a stranger.

That night, alone in his study, she opened the drawer of his desk, she found an envelope he'd always checked on every day.

Her name written in bold, familiar strokes. Her heart cracked as she slid the paper out and unfolded the letter.

'Yalda,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve done the one thing I never wanted to do, leave you. I’m sorry. More than I can ever say. I fought for time. I fought for us. And still, it ran out.

I don’t know what happens next for you. But I need you to know, you gave me more than love. You gave me peace. You made me feel like a man again. You held me when I was falling apart, and somehow, you didn’t flinch. You stayed.

I have nothing more to offer you but everything I own. My properties, my name, my messes. They’re yours now. Not because you needed them. But because I needed you to have them. You saw me. And that was everything. My lawyer should be there to do the needful, I also left enough for Carl and Lena, they should be comfortable for a very long time.

Promise me again, you’ll keep breathing. Even when I don’t.

Yours, always,
Alexander.'

She folded the letter carefully and held it to her chest. And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

Not the quiet tears of before, but deep, gut-wrenching sobs that rocked her entire body. Because it was over. Because he was gone. Because his love, so deep and powerful, still held her even now.

Because he had called her name one last time. And left her with everything.