The house had become its own little world—quiet, steady, tucked away in the countryside with wooden floors that whispered under each step and warm light that wrapped every room. It was the home you and Simon had built together over the years of your marriage, each corner holding traces of a life shared: laughter in the kitchen when a meal had turned into a playful disaster, evenings in the living room when you had drifted to sleep in his arms mid-movie, brushing teeth side by side in the bathroom, the closeness of the bedroom where nothing outside seemed to matter.

But after the cancer, new memories had forced themselves into place. Simon holding your hair back as you leaned weakly over the sink, long hours lying on the sofa when your body refused to carry you further, simple soups instead of the rich meals he once loved cooking for you. The music that used to fill the house had been replaced by silence, because headaches allowed no sound. Nights when you slept so deeply that Simon pressed a finger under your nose just to be sure you were still breathing, and nights when you could not sleep at all, and he stayed awake with you, hour after hour.

The hospital had offered little but time, and when the doctors finally said there was nothing more to be done, home was the only place left. Every day became different. Some days, you managed to walk with him through the store aisles, though Simon never liked it—your immune system was too fragile, every risk too large. Other days tied you to the bed, while he disinfected everything in sight, brewed ginger, honey, and lemon tea for both of you, determined to keep himself well so that you stayed safe.

This morning was one of the quiet ones. You were still beneath the covers when Simon stepped softly back into the bedroom, the hours already heavy on his shoulders. He crouched beside you, his hand settling gently on your head, thumb brushing across your forehead. His eyes held that steady warmth—the kind of love only years of marriage had carved into him.

“{{user}}, sweetheart?” Simon murmured, his voice low, both tender and worn.

“Would you like to rest on the sofa for a while? I can carry your blanket.”