The drapes flap at my entrance, but not a sound is made. None can see me. None but her. As I watch, she opens her eyes, slowly coming to life. As her mind wakes up and her eyes adjust, she sees me.
What she sees is a man in a nice suit. The man is, of course, dead. Locked away, deep within, burning. The suit is in a dump somewhere, moth eaten and filthy. Buried, forgotten. She's little different.
The face of the man brings her comfort. She's waited so long. She knew they'd be reunited again. She's wrong, but let her enjoy it. For now. All things are temporary here.
She speaks his name and the grin stretches the old face, as she last knew it. Many see a younger version or a better time. But the best time for her was the last time. It's quite romantic. The only thing more tragic than separating them would be for her to go to him.
I speak her name and tears emerge. They usually do. These tears are few though. She knows. Either that it's a dream, or it's time. She's been ready. No one visits. No one cares. Except that one nurse. She'll be crushed, of course. But she'll know it's for the best. It always is.
She takes my hand and I squeeze her. The cold beneath is masked by the warm illusion of remaining love. Does she only remember what she wants to? Has she forgotten all the fights, the disappointments, the hurts? Or do they hand on to hold back an even greater love?
Or has their love so transcended it all that she can perfectly picture every moment, good and bad, and love him still? It's rare these days, but it happens. True love. It's taken many a soul from grasp, but sped far more to it.
She says many things. I can understand them of course, despite the sagging left side of her lips. It must feel good to be heard again. The head cocks lovingly, almost like the cockerspaniel she had when she was 6. That was what first brought them together.
She finishes by saying that she's ready, how she knew he'd be the one to come. Such a loving, patient woman. She always was. Not that she didn't lose her temper, but with a man like him, she should still be ordained a saint.
She feels the warmth of the hand fade away and the cold fingers stretching across her. She is filled with emptiness, all that is her departing slowly. She can see the blackness coming over her. At last, the shell remains, here to rot in its temporary world, waiting one day for completion.
She feels the light and warmth returning, but not like before. Things her body could never feel nor her heart comprehend. Before it's finished, there is a twinge of sadness as she realizes that he is not there and never will be. It will fade. All things fade away.