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The steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor was the only constant.
He watched her chest rise and fall, a fragile rhythm against the stark white sheets. Each morning, he’d adjust the blinds, letting a sliver of sunlight warm her pale face.
He'd tell her about the news, the weather, the dog’s latest antics. Sometimes, he’d read aloud from her favorite book, the words echoing in the quiet room, unanswered.
He never missed a day.
Today, a new nurse, wide-eyed and nervous, fumbled with a syringe. “She’s… always like this?” she whispered, looking at him, then at the still figure.
He nodded, a familiar ache in his chest. “Always.”
He took the offered cotton swab, ready to dab her arm. The nurse hesitated, then quickly injected the clear liquid.
The routine continued. He’d brush her hair, careful with the tangles, and clean the dust from the bedside table. He’d replace the wilting flowers every few days, choosing bright, cheerful ones, hoping they’d bring some color to the muted room.
He recalled their first date, a clumsy picnic by the lake, her laughter echoing across the water. Their wedding day, a blur of white lace and joyful tears.
The countless evenings spent on the porch swing, planning a future that now seemed impossibly distant. He’d trace the lines on her hand, each one a map of shared memories.
One evening, the head doctor came in, her face grave.
“Mr. Thompson, we’ve done everything we can. Her brain activity is almost imperceptible. It's time to consider…”
Her voice trailed off, but he understood. He shook his head, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek.
“Not yet. She’s still with me.”
The following morning, he woke with a start.
The monitor was silent.
No beep. Just a flat, unbroken line across the screen.
He rushed to her side, his heart pounding. Her chest was still. Her hand, when he clasped it, was colder than usual. He buried his face in her hair, the scent of lavender and hospitals a cruel comfort.
He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, the silence deafening.
When he finally looked up, his eyes fell upon the picture on the bedside table. It was them, younger, happier, standing in front of their first house.
And then, his gaze drifted to the framed medical degree on the wall, just above the monitor. His medical degree.
And the name embossed on the uniform pocket of the still figure beside him.
'Thompson'.
He adjusted the blinds, letting the first rays of sunlight fall upon the face of his wife, the patient, for the very last time.