A gravely sick wealthy woman strolling in a snowy garden noticed a father and his son shivering on a seat—and brought them to her residence…

Outwardly—calm, work, smile. But in the mornings, it became hard to get up. Sometimes with a sharp movement, darkness before her eyes.

Her medical file lay in the top drawer, but she didn’t open it, as if the paper could destroy the illusion that everything was normal. Michael saw how she paled. Once he even suggested.

Maybe you should rest? I’ll manage. She brushed it off. While there’s strength, need to live.

Later it’ll be too late. He didn’t understand. But remembered the phrase.

One evening, when Ethan was already asleep, Michael entered the library. Emily sat with a glass of wine, looking into the fireplace. Thank you, he said.

For everything. Not just the job. For giving us back life.

She was silent for a long time. Then turned to him. In her eyes was something strange, like a person who made a decision but couldn’t voice it.

And if you learned that all this—is not accidental? That you appeared in my life not just like that? He froze. What do you mean? She turned away to the fire. Nothing yet.

Just imagine someone knows more about you than you yourself. And keeps it to themselves. Would you forgive? Michael didn’t know what to answer.

Depends on the reason, he said slowly. If done out of fear, maybe. If out of love, definitely.

They fell silent. And outside the window, snow fell again, not the one that scares, but the one that covers the earth like a blanket. And in this silence was something important.

That changes everything. Forever. The last weeks flowed like honey in frost: slowly, viscous, as if each minute was pulled from the calendar and placed separately to examine from all sides.

In the house, where silence of the hall and cold glass gleam once reigned, now sounded footsteps, laughter, clatter of dishes, child’s remarks, jingle of keys, and sometimes a lively, almost homely «you want tea?». And all this seemed to try to reclaim from Emily her pain, the intrusive knowledge of her own sentence. Michael and Ethan firmly entered her routine.

In the morning—coffee for three, with crumbling pastries and Ethan’s school stories. During the day—work, where Michael gradually turned into an indispensable employee. In the evening—fireplace, tea, sometimes—wine…

But in this coziness was what Emily feared more than death—closeness. She caught herself with a gaze lingering on his hand. On his voice, which began to appear in her dreams.

On his laughter, which for the first time in many years echoed inside her with something more than an echo. Michael felt it too. He didn’t speak, but in his actions, in care, in silent presence was something more.

He noticed when she got tired. Handed a blanket, placed a cup closer, didn’t ask extra. And she feared that one day he would speak aloud.

Because she already knew: this feeling is wrong. She sat in her bedroom holding that very certificate she had avoided so long. The doctor at the appointment no longer masked his gaze, spoke harshly.

Progression. Surgery impossible. Only supportive therapy.

You need to prepare. Prepare? For what—for dying? For the moment when breath slips like a sheet from the bed? For writing a will? Emily put the paper back in the drawer, as if trying to hide a monster under the bed. But it didn’t disappear.

That night she slept poorly. And at dawn made a decision: not to hide. Not to conceal from what’s happening.

And to spend the remaining not in hospital, not in solitude, but with those who became close to her. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s wrong.

You want to go on vacation? Michael was surprised when she said it in the kitchen. Not just vacation. I want to show Ethan something big.

Something beautiful. Something he’ll remember forever. Egypt? Egypt.

Sand, pyramids, sea. We dreamed of it in childhood, right? Michael laughed. I dreamed of digging in sand, and ended up digging trenches.

So it’s time to make up for it, she smiled. I already talked to the travel agent. We’ll organize everything.

Flight in five days. Laura coming? Of course. Who’ll carry the suitcases? Michael fell silent…