A cold wind swirled the yellowed leaves outside the window. The rain couldn't decide whether to fall or not, settling instead for occasionally blurring the glass with watery veils. Through the breaks in the clouds, distant mountains were visible, where sunlight, yielding to shadows, slowly retreated toward the peaks.

On this side of the window frame, it was dry and cool. The air smelled sharply of decay and medicine, and the whispering air freshener in the corner couldn't mask it. The center of the room was occupied by a high-tech bed, every part of which was adjustable. Medical equipment hung from the stands around it, oxygen tanks were secured at the headboard, their tubes snaking across the blue sheet to the nostrils of the man lying there. IVs fed the dying man's blood with doses of medication. The heart monitor beeped steadily, tracking the beats of an old, worn-out heart.

On a metal chair with a vinyl seat, placed beside the headboard, sat a woman, just as withered and aged as the man in the bed. She held her husband's hand in hers. His hand was thin, almost weightless; beneath the yellowed, papery skin, bones were palpable. The old Tissot watch on his wrist hung loosely — two fingers could slip beneath the scratched metal band. There was almost no muscle left in his arm; the prolonged battle with illness had drained him dry. She remembered how strong those hands had once been, how they could spin her in a dance, lift her into the air, how she could lean back into them, laughing, certain they would never drop her, never let her come to harm. She remembered how tightly the watch had once fit his wrist — and fresh tears traced the wet paths down from her aged, dimming eyes.

“Now, now, enough of that,” her husband chided softly. His voice was weak, barely louder than a whisper, and when another gust of rain rattled the window, she had to strain to hear him. “No more crying.”

“I...” Flustered, the woman pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “I just can't get used to the idea that... Well...”

“We've talked about this many times,” his voice rustled through the room like the orange leaves spinning in the October wind outside. “There's no hope left — you know that. We've gone over it with the doctors again and again, and...”

He paused, inhaling deeply from the oxygen, gathering strength to finish. In the silence that followed, the October wind, sneaking into the room, tangled in the strings of the lonely guitar standing in the corner.

“...And we agreed that today would be a good day to end it.”

“I don't want you to go.” She sniffled and squeezed his hand a little tighter — but not enough to hurt him. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

“I don't like it either, Sparky,” he murmured. “But we've been given more time than we expected. And I'd rather go on my own terms, while I'm still lucid enough to make the choice. You know the alternative — my body might last another three to five months, but there'd be so many drugs in my blood that the bedbugs here would start thinking they're acromantulas from Harry Potter.”

“There are no bedbugs in this bed,” she managed a teary smile.

“Figure of speech.” He took another breath of oxygen. “You know how it'll be. A machine will breathe for me. I'll be fed through a tube. Either drugged out of my mind or in too much pain to show it. I'll still die,” he forced out the forbidden word, “but on the disease's terms, not mine. And you remember...”

“...You've always done everything on your own terms.” She lifted his dry, birdlike hand and kissed it, her fingertips brushing the loose watch on his wrist. “I understand. But I'm still sad.”

“Hey, smile, sunshine,” he tried to squeeze her hand in return. “You'll have a whole free room. Sell all this junk,” he glanced at the equipment by the bed, “and you'll have enough for good canvases and paints. You can paint again! You always wanted to turn the mountain-facing room into a studio!”

The woman, whose hair had long since lost its red hue and who hadn't been called “Sparky” or “sunshine” by anyone but her husband in twenty years, began to cry again.

“You... You...”

“Hard-nosed cynic, I know,” he whispered.

“I'd give up every canvas and paint in the world for one more month with you,” she admitted, pressing his wrinkled palm to her cheek.

“Sunshine, we've already decided.” He smiled faintly — it was all the strength he had left. “No more sad thoughts. Do you really want this day to be remembered only for sorrow?”

“Because today is...”

“Our fifty-fourth anniversary.”

Five years earlier

“Doctor, are you absolutely, positively sure?” The elderly woman's voice was pleading as she addressed the young man in the white coat with the obligatory stethoscope around his neck.

Why do all doctors wear stethoscopes? Even oncologists, who have no use for them?

“I'm afraid so,” the oncologist shrugged. “Here are the scan results.”

“But chemotherapy... or radiation...”

“Not at his age,” the doctor shook his head. “Aggressive chemo would kill him faster than the cancer. And the metastases are spreading rapidly. I'm surprised he walked in here on his own — he must be in terrible pain. We can give him palliative care, slow the tumors' growth, but I doubt we can stop them completely.”

She swallowed hard.

“How long does he have?”

“Frankly...” The oncologist held the scan up to the light. “Two years. Three at most, if his body responds well to treatment. Unlikely to be longer.”

Tears traced thin, glistening paths down the cheeks of the small woman who had reached the verge of old age.

“What do I do, doctor? What do I do now? We've been together for almost half a century. Today is forty-nine years since we met. What do I do now?”

The doctor, who had only recently turned thirty-five, couldn't imagine fifty years of shared life, but he knew the answer to her question. It was one every MD heard sooner or later. Dermatologists and trichologists heard it less often, but they weren't exempt. Medical school had prepared him for this.

“You have very little time left together,” he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “So use it to love him. Cherish him. Bring him joy. Care for him. Give him your love. These are his last years, and the disease will kill him while causing unbearable pain. Try to make sure that when he stands at the threshold of eternity and looks back, he'll say your love mattered more than the pain. Make him happy.”

She sobbed.

“The years ahead will be hard,” the doctor continued. “The pain will likely make him irritable, short-tempered. The drugs he'll need to manage it may make him seem like a different person. But remember — inside, he's still the man you married, the man you love. Men struggle to admit they need help, and his own weakness may make him aggressive. He might lash out at you or himself. You may even have to place him under professional care — fortunately, the medical insurance from his former employer, Red Hook Enterprises, covers all of it, so money won't be an issue. It will be difficult. But don't let it stop you from loving him. You only have a few years left to cherish the man who's shared your life. Use them to the fullest. While he's still mobile, fulfill your shared dreams. Take a vacation. Gamble in a casino. Bask in the Florida sun. Go on a cruise. If he ever wanted to learn piano or guitar, buy them for him. This is your chance to show him how much he means to you.”

“He means everything,” she whispered through tears. “Everything.”

“Then use these years to know him, cherish him, love him,” the doctor said softly. “Take the chance to be with him. It's the last one you'll get.”

“How do I live without him?”

“That's a question only you can answer.”

She turned to the window, where the October wind tossed leaves battered by the first frost. What she really wanted to ask was, Why should I live without him? But no one could answer that.

Nine years earlier

“Sparky, are you finally ready? Reminder: our tickets are for today, not for Christmas Eve.”

“Coming!”

The man stood in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. A few years ago, he would've paced impatiently in front of the full-length mirror, but now his reflection — like his knees and back — wasn't what it used to be. The suit that had once fit perfectly was now loose in the chest and shoulders. At least the waist still fits. Maybe even a little too snugly.

“Is the taxi here yet?” came the voice from upstairs.

His body might be failing, but there were some constants in their life. He glanced at the old-fashioned watch on his wrist, briefly noting how easy it was to read the hands through the replaced glass — and how hard it had been to find a replacement glass for this particular Tissot model. His wife, still putting on the finishing touches at her vanity, was always exactly twenty-two minutes late. He had four more minutes to wait.

“Take your time. I only called the taxi five minutes ago, knowing you'd be delayed.”

She appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the second-floor bedrooms. In her shimmering blue dress, carrying a tiny clutch, she was simply breathtaking. A sapphire necklace glinted at her throat, diamond studs sparkled in her ears. One finger bore a delicate white band with a single tiny diamond.

“Oh!” He gave a half-bow. “You know what? I've changed my mind about going to the opera with you. You'll outshine even the prima donna. They'll write about us in the papers, every critic in town will gossip, and I'll never be able to show my face in public again.” She descended gracefully, hand on the railing.

“Don't worry, darling. I may be the most beautiful woman at the opera, but standing next to you will be all it takes to bring us right back down to mediocrity. So? The taxi?”

He smiled. His wife's wit remained timeless. His knees, sadly, did not.

“And where would you take me if I agreed to skipping the opera?”

“A nightclub, maybe?”

“Listen, we're well past sixty. What are we going to do in a crowd of young idiots shaking to music we don't understand?”

“Who's past sixty?! I feel like a very experienced twenty-year-old fool!”

“Any experienced twenty-year-old fool worth his salt should have no trouble doing forty push-ups.”

He eyed the floor skeptically. Outside the front door, a car with a green roof light pulled up.

“Experience tells this twenty-year-old fool that push-ups aren't much fun. So, the opera?”

“The opera. This year, let's celebrate our anniversary my way!”

She slipped into elegant ankle boots that matched her dress. Her husband draped a fur shawl over her shoulders.

“I thought you liked the celebration I arranged last year.”

“You mean when we watched Paris Saint-Germain vs. Barcelona at a sports bar, you drank too much cold beer, lost your voice, puked all over the counter, and I had to buy drinks for everyone you sprayed because you forgot your wallet? Then I had to pay also for your beer, which by the way was utterly disgusting, and to top it off, you caught a chill, got sick, and spent two weeks in bed sneezing so hard the china in the cabinet rattled? “Liked” doesn't quite cover it. It was unforgettable. I literally won't forget that anniversary till the day I die. This year, I'd like something pleasant for a change.”

“So would I. Shame our favorite show got canceled... I'd in a heartbeat trade these opera tickets for a night on the couch with you, — cozy, warm and going absolutely nowhere.”

She glanced into the mirror to check her dress and noticed a flicker of light behind her.

Turning, she saw a bright circle from the ceiling lamp reflected off his wristwatch, dancing across the wall as he rubbed his forehead. A spasm of pain twisted his face for a split second.

“You've been getting these headaches more often. You really should see a doctor.”

“I will. Hand me my coat — it's freezing out there.”

“Well, it is October.”

Fourteen years earlier

“Hey, are you coming?”

“Yeah, just a sec. Got some official-looking letter in here.”

His wife waited in the living room. Two armchairs sat side by side in front of the massive TV, frozen on the last frame of their favorite show's opening credits. He stood in the hallway, sorting through the day's mail piled on the entryway shelf. A sharp wind whistled through the mail slot, and he shifted from foot to foot, shivering. Amid the charity appeals, postcards from vacationing children, theater season announcements, an invitation to a Red Hook Enterprises retirees' gathering, and a few glossy ads, he found the electricity bill — which he immediately tucked into the corner of the hallway mirror so he wouldn't forget to pay it. Beneath it was a letter in an aggressively official-looking envelope. He fished reading glasses from his robe pocket, slit the envelope with a steel letter opener, and squinted at the dense bureaucratese jargon inside.

“Sunshine, remember our first apartment?”

“The one on the hill, with the neighbors obsessed with mowing the lawn at 6 AM?”

“No, that was the second. The first was on Bay View. Two bedrooms, a big living room with panoramic windows facing the ocean.”

“Oh, right. Gosh, that place was an icebox! No wonder I blocked it out. We should've known better — the insulation was garbage. I still remember that icy wind blowing straight from the bay into our living room. Even a volcano couldn't have warmed that place before May. Brrr! We both spent every winter dripping like faucets until some poor sucker rented the place for the view. What about it?”

He flipped the page, wading deeper into the legalese jungle.

“Looks like we just paid off the mortgage.”

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