Delicate kisses were peppered upon his blemished, dirty face. One on the brow, one on the cheek, one on the lips. With a gentle swipe, the fresh blood was wiped from the corners of his mouth. The world around was hazy.

Arthur was dying. It was a long time coming, truly. Tuberculosis is one hell of a thing. But it didn’t really dawn upon him until now — until you held him in your arms and were reduced to sobs against his frail chest.

“You were everything.” He wheezed, his hand reaching to you.