“To remind you that something small and seemingly light can carry immense weight.”
Dr. Herrera walked into the room to check Sarah’s oxygen levels.
Seeing how exhausted she had become, he quietly signaled that Victor should give her time to rest.
Victor leaned closer to Sarah.
“Are you afraid?”
Sarah looked toward the ceiling.
“Yes.”
It was the first time in twenty-two years he could remember hearing her admit fear.
“What do you do when you’re afraid?” he asked.
“I think about my former students,” Sarah whispered. “The ones who struggled for months to read, and then suddenly one day everything clicked. That moment always felt like a miracle.”
“Do you think about me?”
Sarah slowly turned toward him.
“Yes.”
“After everything?”
“After everything.”
Victor pressed his forehead against her thin knuckles.
“I don’t know how to live with this guilt.”
“Learn.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can,” Sarah whispered. “It’s just that now, no one is going to do it for you.”
At 3:48 PM, Sarah’s breathing slowed noticeably.
“Sarah?” Victor stood quickly.
She opened her eyes one last time.
“Eight o’clock sharp,” she whispered.
“Yes. I promise.”
Sarah raised her hand slightly and brushed her fingertips against his tear-streaked cheek.
Then she closed her eyes.
Dr. Herrera returned to the room at 3:52 PM.
Victor understood before the doctor said a word.
He sat beside Sarah, holding her hand until the room became completely quiet.
The memorial service took place one week later.
Lucinda attended.
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