“Nothing.”
He lowered his eyes to the game board, a thoughtful stillness settling over his face.
I did not understand why.
A week later, I arrived to find him wearing a pressed blue shirt.
A small velvet box sat beside his tea.
“Carl?”
“Marry me, Selena,” he said.
I nearly dropped the grocery bag.
He gave me a tired smile.
“I know how that sounds.”
“We have known each other four months.”
“Four very competitive months,” he corrected.
I did not laugh.
Carl folded his hands, and the humor disappeared from his expression.
“I filled out hospital paperwork this morning. Every space marked ‘next of kin’ was blank.” His fingers rested beside the velvet box. “I am asking whether my last chapter can have someone holding my hand.”
I sat opposite him.
“You deserve more than pity, Carl.”
“I agree.”
“Then why me?”
His gaze moved toward the bookcase.
“Because you never make kindness feel like charity.”
A quiet ache formed behind my ribs.
I had spent years volunteering beside people nearing the end of their lives. I understood the danger of confusing compassion with love.
But what I felt for Carl was not obligation.
It felt like recognizing a room in a house I had never entered.
“All right,” I said.
The following afternoon, a priest married us in Carl’s living room.
When his hand shook too badly to slide the ring onto my finger, I guided it with my own.
He released a breath as though he had finally reached shore.
For ten days, I was his wife.
I cooked while he gave instructions from a chair.
We watched old movies.
I read aloud whenever his eyes became tired.
On the eighth night, I found him holding a worn novel against his chest.
Its cover had faded beyond recognition.
“What book is that?” I asked.
“My favorite.”
“May I see?”
He tightened his arms around it like a shield.
“Not yet.”
I teased him for keeping secrets.
He smiled but refused to hand it over.
