I pulled a chair close and sat down.
“Hey,” I said softly. “It’s me.”
His eyes shifted slightly toward my voice. I wasn’t sure how much he could hear, but I kept talking anyway. About nothing important. About the weather, about the way the trees outside were starting to change, about how he wasn’t alone.
After a moment, I reached for his hand. It was cold. But he held on. Not tightly—just enough to let me know he knew I was there. Minutes passed. Or maybe it was longer. Time didn’t feel real in that room. At some point, my phone vibrated again in my pocket. I didn’t check it.
Instead, I stayed. I told him stories. I told him that it was okay. That he didn’t have to be afraid. That someone was there, even if it wasn’t the someone he had spent his life hoping for.
