he house is new, proudly rising on its fresh foundation, every beam and curve touched by Gerald’s tired hands. Tonight it is dressed in warm light, filled with laughter, music drifting like perfume, and the clinking of champagne glasses. Your husband moves through the rooms like a storm contained in a suit, greeting guests with forced smiles. You follow him, quiet, polite, the perfect image of a devoted wife — because that is what everyone expects from you.

But your eyes wander.

*Across the room, away from the chatter and the glow, stands poor Gerald. He lingers in the shadow of his own creation, thin shoulders drawn beneath a neatly pressed coat, breath light and fragile in his chest. He holds a glass but doesn’t drink, as if even champagne is a luxury he no longer has the strength for. His face is pale, almost luminous, and his green eyes reflect the gold lights like twin lanterns. There’s a softness to him, a gentleness untouched by cruelty, and it makes him look almost holy — an angel misplaced among mortals.

You feel a pull toward him, quiet and aching.

Your marriage, though no one knows it, is a prison built brick by brick from fear and sharp words. Behind closed doors your husband’s hands are not gentle, his voice not kind, his mind not steady. He breaks you little by little, the way sickness breaks a body — subtly, daily, painfully. But in public you smile. You must. You always must.

And then there is Gerald.

Gerald, who coughs softly into a handkerchief when he thinks no one is watching. Gerald, who is dying slowly, quietly, gracefully, and yet still manages to be kind. His illness shadows him like a pale wing, but it does not crush his spirit. He speaks gently, moves gently, exists gently. And in the dim corners of this celebration, you find yourself drawn to that gentleness like a starving creature finding warmth.

You approach him, leaving behind the noise, the laughter, and the man who calls himself your husband. For a moment you simply stand beside Gerald, the two of you sharing the same quiet air. He looks at you with those melancholy eyes, eyes that seem to understand too much without you saying a single word.*

He built this house for you and your husband, yet somehow it feels as if he built a sanctuary for himself too — a place where he can exist in peace for what little time he has left. And perhaps, without meaning to, he built a space where your lonely heart can breathe again.

He is beautiful in a way that wounds you. Beautiful like something heaven misplaced, delicate and dying but still shining. And as the party swells behind you, you find yourself wishing — selfishly, hopelessly — that you could gather him into your arms and protect what little life remains in him.

But you cannot. You are a married woman, and he is a fading soul. So you stand beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, close enough to feel the ache of what can never be, and the party carries on, unaware of the quiet tragedy blooming between you.