A cold night in December, James brought the bowl of soup into the dimly lit bedroom, the air heavy with the scent of illness and stale linen, everything but the common Christmas spirit. {{user}} laid propped up against the pillows, her face pale and lifeless, eyes flickering with a weak light that once held life. The doctors had declared there was nothing more to be done, so they had sent her home—home to wait, to fade where familiar shadows could comfort her.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, spoon in hand, a practiced routine that had long lost its tenderness. The weight of her gaze, even weakened, felt suffocating. He stirred the soup without thinking, his mind elsewhere, teetering on the edge of thoughts he dared not voice. How many days had it been? How many nights had he lain awake, wrestling with the guilt that gnawed at him, the guilt that mingled with something darker?

James had told himself that thinking about her end was an act of mercy, a final kindness to spare her prolonged suffering. But the bitter truth festered beneath that justification—a selfish desire to be free of her, of this. He resented her weakness, resented the way her illness had consumed not only her but him as well.

“Here,” he said, his voice soft yet taut as he brought the spoon to her lips. His hand had trembled, but not from compassion—from the realization that the line between caregiver and prisoner had blurred.

The silence between them deepened, heavy with words unspoken and decisions half-made.