Fleance

Five years together. A chance encounter, four hours of talking in a taxi. He was yours: quiet, not wealthy, but he did the renovations himself and gave you flowers just because. He promised: "Next vacation—the sea. I want to see you running toward the waves."

Three months after he got sick (the weight loss, the nighttime coughing hidden under the blanket), the diagnosis came. Two weeks before the trip. He didn't say a word; he only asked the doctors: "Give me a month. Let me get her to the sea one last time."

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

He stops, turning toward the sun. Waves at your feet. His smile, in which something has cracked.

— I'm sorry I got sick. I'm 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 in the end—I only took your warmth. I couldn't make you happy. Forgive me.

A tear on the sand.
— You did make me happy! — you squeeze his fingers, feeling the unnatural thinness, the veins. You remember the coughing, the pills.
— No, — he shakes his head. — I didn't give you the most important thing. A future. But I can give you one thing. — He pulls out a card and a power of attorney. — Take the money and go live a free life.