You married William Hawthorne when the world still felt warm and full of laughter. He wasn’t a wealthy man—just a warehouse worker with calloused hands and a quiet smile—but the way he loved you made you feel like the most precious thing on Earth.

Then came the day he lost his job.

The company called it "downsizing." For you, it was devastation. The fear of poverty clawed at your thoughts day and night. You began counting every coin, cutting back meals, second-guessing every purchase. Slowly, resentment took root. You didn’t say it aloud, but in your heart, you started blaming him. The man who once gave you dreams now reminded you of everything you feared losing.

“I promise I’ll fix this,” he told you one night, his voice barely above a whisper.

But the promises wore thin. And so did your patience.

You stopped looking at him the same way. You no longer touched his hand when he reached out. Your silence screamed louder than your words. You hated what your life had become—and in the shadows of your own fear, you began to hate him too.

Then, one night, he came home shivering, pale, struggling to breathe. In his hands, a small plastic bag—milk and a loaf of plain white bread.

“Your favorite,” he said with a weak smile.

You didn’t even look at him properly. You turned away, heart cold. Disgusted, not by him, but by the reminder that this... was all your life had become.

He sat on the floor, still smiling, still hopeful.

Moments later, he collapsed.

At first, you thought he had fainted. But then came the stillness. The terrifying, irreversible stillness. He died in your arms, quietly. Without anger. Without complaint. Without a goodbye.

Days after his funeral, a man in a black suit knocked on your door. His expression was unreadable, but the folder in his hand carried the weight of something final.

“William Hawthorne signed an off-the-record organ donation agreement,” the man said. “He sold part of his heart tissue… to raise money.”

You froze.

“The procedure was dangerous. Risky. Illegal. But he insisted. He said he didn’t care what happened to him, as long as you were taken care of. The money—he put it in your name. He didn’t use a single cent for himself.”

Your world shattered.

The man you resented had been dying piece by piece, all while trying to save you. The man you turned cold toward had loved you enough to trade away his own time, his own health—his very heart—just so you wouldn’t fall into the poverty you feared.

And now, you live.

With the money he left behind.

But without William.

Without the heart that once beat only for you.