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 can I live? At the airfield, it smelled of hot asphalt and gasoline. Instructors spoke fast, explained, showed. David checked straps, Ethan waved from the ground.

Emily stood calmly. Calmer than all. You sure? asked David, looking in her eyes.

Absolutely. We live once. They rose into the sky.

Below—countryside, roads stretched in strips, dusty areas, sea, open to the horizon. Emily felt her heart pounding. Not from fear.

From realization: she’s here. Now. In the sky.

On the edge. They jumped almost simultaneously, in tandem with instructors. David flew like a bird, shouted with delight.

Wind hit the face, earth approached. All like in a movie. Then—a scream.

He didn’t make out whose. Turned. And saw—Emily’s parachute canopy didn’t open.

The second—neither. Instructor pulled the ring. Panic.

Seconds. They fell. Like in a silent film, without sound.

Only wind. Only sky, torn to pieces. David yelled.

No. But it was already too late. She fell, as if not a body, but light.

And the light faded. Screams, fuss, sirens. Flashes of blue lights, running on the beach, confused tourists, name calls—all became like noise behind glass.

David stood, gripping Ethan’s shoulder, and watched as two men in uniforms zipped two bodies into dense black bags on stretchers. He didn’t cry. Eyes dry as the hot sand underfoot.

Only heart hummed like a huge pipe, low, dull, tearing the chest from inside. Mrs. Harris argued with someone from the airfield administration, demanded a translator, called the consulate. No panic, no hysteria in her voice, only cold resolve.

Her face steel, as if all her life she prepared for such a day and knew: can’t give up now. David didn’t interfere. He couldn’t.

Everything inside went into a deep tunnel. Ethan clung to him, said no word, just stared into emptiness, like a kitten whose home suddenly vanished. The first two days passed in a haze.

Papers, visas, certificates, official statements. David for the first time in life was in the role of close to the deceased, and it all seemed absurd. He repeated his last name, showed passport, nodded, signed documents, and all as if not concerning him.

Just ritual. System. Mrs. Harris took on almost everything.

She negotiated, handled logistics, dealt with the embassy. Sometimes David heard her phrases: no, she was a citizen, yes, system failure there, double canopy, we demand official investigation. But he said nothing himself.

Just silent. And hugged his son, who also asked no more questions. Emily’s body arrived on the fourth day.

In a white coffin, under clear glass. She seemed asleep. Only too still.

Mrs. Harris stood nearby, not allowing herself a tear. So beautiful, she said. As if she knew how she’d go.

Even the dress, like in photos from youth. The funeral was quiet. Without pomp, without the fanfare one might expect from a woman of her level.

Only a narrow circle: employees, childhood friends, those she really meant something to. David stood aside, next to Ethan, squeezing his hand. Mrs. Harris a bit behind.

All like in a dream: mourning, priest’s speech, rustle of earth. Then silence. Huge, covering like a concrete slab.

After the funeral, Ethan suddenly stopped talking. Completely. He didn’t answer questions, didn’t laugh, didn’t draw, didn’t eat at the table. Just sat in the armchair, hugging a pillow, staring out the window.

David couldn’t take it. We need a doctor, he said to Mrs. Harris. Not physical.

Psychologist. Urgently. The psychologist appeared on the third day.

A young woman with soft eyes, neat voice, and monk’s patience. She didn’t ask complex questions. Just sat nearby, read fairy tales, played board games, watched cartoons with Ethan.

Gradually the boy began to return. Not fully. But no longer completely lost…