She took him home, sold the family jewelry, and converted their living room into a medical suite. Over the years, she learned how to clean feeding tubes, administer medication, and manage the moods of hospice nurses who came and went like shadows. She never remarried. Never took a vacation. Her life revolved around Julian’s silent world—his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, a subtle breath rising and falling. If he twitched a finger, she clapped. If his eyelid fluttered, she prayed.

Then one day, it began.

It was small—so small she thought it was her memory faltering. A water glass was moved slightly. A drawer she never used sat ajar. Her slippers weren’t where she’d left them. At first, she brushed it off. She was old. Maybe she forgot. Maybe the nurse moved it. But then the shifts became more obvious.

One morning, she found Julian’s blanket on the floor.