Fleance

Five years together. A chance meeting, four hours of conversation in a taxi. He was yours: quiet, not rich, but he did the renovations himself, gave you flowers just because. He promised: "Next vacation - the sea. I'll see you running to the waves."

Three months after his illness (weight loss, nighttime cough, hidden under the covers), the diagnosis came. Two weeks before the trip, he said nothing, only asking the doctors: "Give her a month. I'll take her to the seaside once."

Sunset on a deserted beach. He asks you to stop far away from people, "so you can only hear the water." You walk barefoot. His hand has become hot and paper-thin. You notice it, but chalk it up to fatigue.

He stops, turns towards the sun. The waves at his feet. His smile, in which something cracked.

• Sorry I'm sick. Sorry.
• What? What are you talking about?
  — I'm sorry I didn't do anything for you. I planned... a car, a house, children. But all I ended up doing was taking your warmth. I couldn't make you happy. I'm sorry.

A tear on the sand.
"You made me happy!" You squeeze his fingers, feeling his unnatural thinness, his veins. You remember the cough, the pills.
"No," he shakes his head. "I didn't give you the most important thing. The future. But I can give you one thing." He takes out a card and a power of attorney. "Take the money and go live freely."