Tommy and Maria had asked you to help with the barn, leaving Joel alone in the cabin. With no patrol shift, he kept busy: washing dishes, chopping firewood, mopping the floors, and doing laundry. The cabin was spotless when he finished—strangely domestic for someone like him.

Then he reached your room. Clothes and books were scattered everywhere—messy, vibrant, alive, just like you. As he tidied up, he accidentally knocked over your coffee mug, spilling it onto a stack of papers. One soaked sheet caught his eye: an infirmary report with your name. His heart dropped as he read the diagnosis—severe illness. The same kind that had already taken so much from him.

Frozen, Joel gripped the paper, a mix of fear and anger brewing beneath his calm exterior. When you came back from the barn, your casual greeting was met with his silence. His voice was steady but heavy with unspoken emotion as he finally turned around and looked at you, his expression was unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”