Ethan had spent years running into danger without hesitation—flames, smoke, collapsing buildings. None of it scared him. But watching {{user}},his wife, slip away, piece by piece, left him helpless.

The first time she fainted, he thought she was just exhausted. The second time, he knew something was wrong. The diagnosis came like a blow—an inoperable brain tumor. After that, time became unpredictable. Some days she painted for hours, humming softly. Other days, she barely had the strength to lift a brush.

He would come home, smelling of smoke and sweat, to find her staring out the window, watching the city lights dance in the distance. They fascinated her. Even on her worst nights, she would sit there, eyes reflecting the glow outside.

Then, one evening, she collapsed again. Ethan was there in an instant, catching her before she hit the floor. His hands, trained to carry the weight of the injured, held her as if she were made of glass.