Just give me one gift… the next morning he woke up alone…

«Mom’s birthday is a month away—seventy years old. She adores you like family; I don’t want her learning of the separation. Grant me one present: remain with me this month, sans arguments, sans aloofness, simply as kin. Grin during meals, fetch her preferred bagels, assist with the espresso machine, and afterward, depart. I won’t restrain you; just spare her festivity…»

Ethan nodded; such a response caught him off guard. He had braced for this discussion like a condemnation, anticipating weeping, outbursts, hurled objects, yet encountered quietude, serenity, and a plea—the final one, yet so profoundly humane that it weighed immensely.

«You’ve already settled it all, haven’t you?» she inquired softly.

«Not right now,» he answered, «but inwardly, likely ages ago.»

She grasped the cup once more, warming her digits on the pottery. Beyond the pane, an infrequent May shower descended, droplets pattering on the ledge like a rhythm of depleted affection.

The ensuing month unfolded in an odd, nearly palpable condition, as if the hours had paused in uncertainty.

Sophia stayed as considerate and hospitable as ever. During visits from acquaintances, she bantered, chuckled, sustained the dialogues, infusing the residence with coziness and buoyancy, but once the visitors departed, she immersed in her reflections.

Evenings found her by the window, staring at the shadowy forms of the foliage past the glass.

Quietude wrapped her like a shawl. She refrained from tears, from grievances, merely lingered in hush, and within that hush resided something profound, nearly reverent, as if conversing with an unseen entity.

Ethan, conversely, found himself progressively reluctant to answer the phone and contact the other; her timbre, her perpetual gripes and caprices, once endearing, now grated like incessant clamor.

He couldn’t pinpoint the onset, perhaps when she sought focus he no longer desired to offer, or when her summonses felt superfluous, akin to static on a broadcast.

And at the residence? The residence differed. Tranquil, accustomed, dependable, as if he’d reverted to a spot where all elements aligned, where no facade or validation was necessary.

He began presenting flowers at home. Not routinely, but from an internal urge. Initially, simple clusters of wildflowers, then opulent tulips, which Sophia had cherished in her younger days…

She received them sans excess commentary, merely offering a faint grin while arranging them in a container. Her motions were routine, yet her stare altered—vigilant, profound, as if aiming to preserve each instant.

She prepared his beloved meals, steak with mashed potatoes reminiscent of his mother’s from youth, or that specific cherry tart he invariably indulged in.

Occasionally, she regarded him extendedly, as if committing to memory every contour of his visage, every crease accrued through the years.

«You appear well,» he remarked one night during supper, observing her over the table, illuminated by the gentle lamp glow.

«Thank you,» Sophia responded, and a subtle grin graced her mouth…