celebrating because their patriarch had opened his eyes for the first time in a week. Their joy was a beautiful, painful symphony that echoed in the profound silence of our room. Our room stayed silent, broken only by the clinical sighs and beeps of the machines keeping my husband alive.

My name is Everly, and the man lying before me, my Carlton, was seventy-one. Though, in truth, he looked ancient, his once strong, capable hands now translucent and fragile against the starched white sheets. We had been married for forty-seven years, a lifetime of shared sunrises and quiet evenings. In all that time, I never imagined I would face his final days so utterly alone.