I visited once a week. He never had visitors — no cards, no flowers, not even a box of chocolates. Just silence and a thin blue curtain around his bed.

The first time I walked in, I wasn’t sure he’d even remember me. But he looked up slowly and blinked at me for a long time before giving a single, slow nod.

“You came,” he said, voice rough but steady.

“I did,” I replied, sitting at the edge of the chair near his bed. “I’m Marisol. I’m not sure if you knew my name.”

Mr. Whitmore smiled gently.

“How are the dogs?” he asked, turning his head toward the window.

“They’re… adjusting. Ruth keeps dragging my throw pillows into the kitchen,” I said. “Balthazar has claimed the entire couch. And Comet barks at the vacuum and the dishwasher.”

He gave another faint smile.