A terminally ill millionaire woman wandered through a winter park, and upon seeing a freezing man with a child on a bench, she took them home…

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 can’t voice it.

And if you learned all this wasn’t 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 do. And keeps it to themselves. Would you forgive? David 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 kind that scares, but the kind 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 laid 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 live, almost homey «you want tea?». And all this seemed to try to reclaim from Emily her pain, the intrusive knowledge of her own sentence. David and Ethan firmly entered her routine.

Mornings—coffee for three, with crumbling pastries and Ethan’s school stories. Days—work, where David gradually turned into an indispensable employee. Evenings—fireplace, tea, sometimes—wine.

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

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

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

Because she already knew: this feeling was 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 the 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 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? David 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. Florida? Florida.

Sand, beaches, ocean. We dreamed of it as kids, right? David laughed. I dreamed of digging in sand, and ended up digging trenches.

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

Flight in five days. Mrs. Harris coming? Of course. Who’ll carry the suitcases? David fell silent.

He felt something in this trip was special. But didn’t ask. She didn’t want to say, means not time.

While packing, Emily caught moments like frames from a favorite movie. Ethan tried on swimming goggles and laughed, looking in the mirror. David picked shorts and winced.

I look like a tourist in Panama from the nineties. Mrs. Harris packed a first-aid kit, as if preparing not for rest, but survival in the desert. Each of them, without knowing, felt something changing.

The night before the flight, Emily didn’t sleep. She opened an old album, the one with photos from childhood. In one—her grandmother with a little boy in arms.

The caption faded, but she already knew—it was David’s mother. And now everything became clearer. That resemblance she earlier attributed to chance.

That warm feeling that seemed like infatuation turned out something else: deeper, more tangled. It was blood connection. And it made everything unbearably complicated.

How to tell him? How not to destroy what finally became real? And if not tell, it would be a lie. Living with it—also wrong. In the room’s darkness, she pressed the old photo to her chest and whispered.

Forgive me. For not knowing. For feeling…