"If you're reading this, I've already forgotten why I left it here. Maybe the next story will remember for me."
The scent of rain-soaked earth clung to Elias's clothes as he entered the sterile room. He adjusted the coarse blanket over the figure on the bed, noting the rhythmic hiss and sigh from the machine beside it.
He reached for the hand, cool and still, and gently squeezed. No response, as expected. He always chose this hour, when the halls were quiet and the nurses' footsteps were muffled echoes.
A single wilting rose, almost black in its decay, lay on the bedside table.
He pulled a small, worn book from his pocket – a collection of sonnets. His voice, a low rumble, filled the silence as he read the familiar lines.
The words, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed to hang heavy in the air, a melancholic hum. He paused at a particular stanza, one they both knew by heart, and a faint smile touched his lips, a ghost of a memory.
The reflection in the window showed a man etched with grief, his eyes shadowed. He remembered a time when those same eyes sparkled with mischief.
He traced the contours of the still face, a landscape he knew intimately. Every line, every subtle curve, told a story he had lived beside for decades. The machine pulsed steadily, a mechanical heartbeat.
He heard a soft click from the door, a nurse entering. She moved with practiced quietness, checking the readings, adjusting a tube.
Her glance lingered on the book in his hand, then on the rose.
"Still reading to them, Elias?" she whispered, her voice kind but weary. "They say it helps."
"It helps me," Elias corrected, his gaze fixed on the figure.
He closed the book, placing it on the table next to the rose. He lingered a moment longer, a silent farewell in his posture, before turning to leave.
As he reached the door, he looked back. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the monitor, highlighting the small, silver nameplate on the bed's footboard:
Outside, the dawn light was breaking. Elias walked to his car, his steps slow but resolute.
He opened the passenger door, gently lifted the small, empty birdcage from the seat, and placed it carefully in the trunk.
The rose, he thought, was from their garden. He would replace it tomorrow, with a fresh one. He always did.