The doctor's words were quiet, but they struck like thunder. Days, not years. A number where there should have been a horizon. He left the clinic without speaking, the paper folded in his pocket like a secret too heavy to carry.
At home, the world was unchanged. His wife was humming softly in the kitchen, his children arguing over something small, the air rich with the smell of bread. He stood in the doorway a long time, memorising it all.
He chose not to tell them. He did not want their days shadowed by pity or fear. Instead, he decided his last gift would be presence. He would give them the best of himself until the very end.
Each morning, he woke early. He made breakfast, brewed coffee, set the table as though it were a feast. He listened with a patience he had not always had. He hugged longer, laughed louder, and looked into their eyes as though he were taking photographs with his heart.
At night, when the house had gone still, he wrote. His diary filled with memories: the first time he saw his wife in a red dress, how his hands trembled when he held their first child, the taste of salt from tears they had shed together, both in sorrow and in joy. He wrote of her strength, the way she carried him in silence when he stumbled, the way her smile could turn defeat into hope. Every page became a love letter, sealed with the urgency of time.
He met with lawyers quietly, signed papers, left nothing unresolved. Their future was arranged and secure. But he told no one. He wanted them to remember him as he was, not as a man waiting for the end, but as a man living fully until the last breath.
His wife never suspected, though sometimes she caught him watching her too long, with an expression she could not quite name. She would smile back, and he would look away, carrying the knowledge that every glance was a farewell.
When the day came, it came gently. He placed his diary in a drawer she would surely open, kissed her forehead as she slept, and lay down beside her. His heart slowed, his breath quieted, and he left without a word.
When she found the diary, the truth unfolded in her hands. The inheritance was there, the plans carefully written, but above all, his voice remained. Every page carried him back to her.
His farewell was not in words spoken aloud, but in love poured out quietly, steadily, until the end.
It was gentle. Painful. And full.