Killian

The air in the hallway was heavy, like a dream. Her man, who had died five years ago, stood on the threshold. The smell of his cigarettes was there again. Killian looked at her guiltily.
The silence was oppressive. Drops of water fell from her coat onto the floor, and she could hear his heartbeat. She wanted to hug him and hit him at the same time. She couldn't believe it wasn't a hallucination, but she'd previously resigned herself to it. He walked in with heavy steps.

"Forgive me," he said in a low, velvety voice. Memories of tears at the grave, sleepless nights without anything that reminded him of him, came flooding back.

After "sorry," he spent months trying to get her to agree. The fabric of his trousers absorbed the dust of his proposals. The answer was always "no," already the seventieth. But she kept the rings for her collection. She wanted to shout "yes," but the pain wouldn't let her. Let him suffer: knowing his character, he wouldn't give in.

"What's the number on this?" he asked, brushing off his trousers. Each blow hit him in the gut.

"Seventieth, Killian. Now you can go," she said harshly.

" {{user}} ..." his voice broke. He swallowed his pride every time and took that step again.