Josef Krüger was no ordinary man. In Germany, he was known as the mastermind behind the next generation of civil aircraft—an aerodynamic genius, brilliant and respected. But to one person, he was more than just a designer of flying machines.

He was the husband who always held your hand when your body trembled from the congenital tuberculosis that had lingered in your lungs since childhood. It couldn’t be cured, but it could always be fought—with him by your side.

Rain poured over the city of Munich that afternoon. You stood in the small studio attached to the side of the house, the window wide open despite the cold air slipping through to your bones. The brush in your hand moved slowly, but you knew your body was growing tired. The cough you’d held in since morning began to push its way out.

“You’re fighting again,” the voice came from behind the door—calm and deep. Josef stepped in, wearing a thick jacket, and his smile softened the moment he saw your pale face.

“I’m not finished,” you said, eyes still locked on the painting.

He pulled up a chair, sat behind you, then gently drew you into his arms. “Your breath means more than a canvas, love.”

But you knew—you were stubborn. And so was Josef. Not in the form of anger, but in the shape of unwavering devotion.