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…

And for what I can’t. Next morning, for the first time in many years, she left the house not in a coat, not in a suit, but in a light windbreaker and with a backpack. Looking like a woman whose luggage held not clothes, but last chances.

The airport met them with bustle, coffee smell, and shimmering boards. Ethan ran between suitcases, admiring planes excitedly. David watched.

Mrs. Harris, grumbling, handed out wet wipes. Emily walked a bit aside, peering at people’s faces, as if trying to remember everything. When the plane took off, she closed her eyes.

Her fingers trembled. David touched her hand. Everything okay.

She squeezed his palm. For now yes. And inside sounded the thought: if only time enough to say everything.

And say goodbye for real. Florida met them like a gentle wave, as if someone opened gates to another world. One without gray weekdays, cold streets, and diagnosis like a stamp in a passport.

The ocean glittered like a glass mirror, sand crunched underfoot, air smelled of salt and freedom. Emily, standing on the hotel balcony, looked into the distance, at the horizon that seemed endless. No borders there.

And no time either. David and Ethan frolicked in the pool. The boy shouted with delight, David laughed as if shedding all past years.

Mrs. Harris sat in a lounge chair and pulled on sunglasses, looking like someone to whom all this was long due by status, only issued late. You should try the coconut cocktail, said David, handing Emily a glass. You’ve never been on vacation your whole life.

Enough living like a tank. And how do you know how I lived? I listened. Noticed.

Compared to myself. She took the cocktail. Took a sip.

And for the first time in many years laughed not out of politeness, not from awkwardness, for real. Tank, you say—stubborn, unbreakable. But even tanks run out of fuel.

And you’re not armored, Emily. You’re alive. He rarely called her by name.

And Emily—first time at all. Something inside her trembled. And it wasn’t the heart.

It was guilt. They went on excursions, rode horses, drank tea with locals. Ethan collected pebbles, sunburned his nose, and started squinting like a little captain.

David photographed everyone, as if wanting to preserve this mirage forever. Emily tried to absorb every moment—the ocean smell, hot wind, sand touch. All this was like a last toast at a farewell party, when you already understand: soon the end.

On the third evening, David invited her to the hotel roof. Underfoot—resort lights, overhead—stars, sharp as engraving. I have to tell you something, he began, not looking in her face.

I know it might be stupid. But if not now, later will be too late. She held her breath.

Already knew what he’d say. And she wanted to disappear right now. Erase herself like with an eraser from this frame.

I love you, Emily. And not as a grateful person. And not because of saving.

But simply, as a man is drawn to a woman. This hasn’t been about circumstances for a long time. This is me. She was silent.

He shifted his gaze, finally daring to see her reaction. But in her eyes was no answer. Only pain.

The kind not covered by words. Forgive me, she said quietly. But it’s impossible.

Why? he whispered. Married? Someone else? She shook her head.

You’re my cousin, David. He didn’t understand right away. What? We’re relatives.

Through father’s line. I found out when we started the documents. I didn’t want to.

But when it became clear, I couldn’t not help you. Couldn’t leave. But now you must understand: it can’t be.

He sat down, head lowered. And was silent for a long time. A light breeze ruffled his hair, stars twinkled as if ironic over their drama.

I didn’t know, he finally exhaled. Then why did you keep silent all this time? Because I wanted to believe love isn’t always about the body. That you can be close without crossing boundaries.

But seems I ruined everything. No, he said, standing. It’s not you.

It’s life. It doesn’t ask if it’s convenient for us. Next morning, Emily suggested.

Let’s go skydiving. You dreamed of it? Me? You told how in youth you dreamed, but no money. Consider it your chance.

And you? I’ve always been a coward. But you know, time has come.

To do at least once what scares you to death. Mrs. Harris threw up her hands hearing where they were going. Are you in your right mind?

You barely agreed to a massage. Emily Johnson, you can’t have overloads, can’t have stress. Mrs. Harris, she answered softly…