The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional creak of the radiator. The snow outside the window fell in slow, heavy flakes, casting a pale glow over the sheets pulled up to your chest.

You were tired—tired in a way that made it hard to speak, hard to even lift your hand. But you knew he was there.

Llewyn.

He sat at your bedside, hunched over his guitar like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His coat was still damp from the snow, and his eyes were red—not from crying, not exactly. Just worn. Like he’d been carrying the weight of every word he’d never said.

He hadn’t spoken much since he came in. Just sat there, like maybe being near you would slow time down.

Then, finally, he looked at you—really looked.

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “You wanna hear something?”

You nodded, barely.

He adjusted the strap around his shoulder, fingers trembling slightly as they found the strings. No warm-up. No theatrics. Just him, and you, and the silence between breaths.

And then he began to sing.

Low, steady, and full of that aching honesty you’d always loved in him. A song you didn’t recognize—but it felt like it was written just for this moment. About stars that burn out too early. About people who slip away quietly. About love that came too late, or maybe right on time.

As he played, his eyes never left yours. And in that look—more than the song, more than the melody—was everything:

The apologies. The love. The knowing.

You smiled, even as your eyes grew heavy.

Llewyn kept singing.

Not because it would save you.

But because he couldn’t let you go in silence.

Because you wanted him to sing one last time.