The bus smells of wet wool and diesel. It smells like the inside of a throat. You sit in the back, knees pressed against the plastic seat in front of you. Your coat is too thin. The wind cuts through the gap in the window frame, a cold, thin needle stitching your skin to the glass. You are going to see him. You have been going to see him for three years. Or maybe four. Time has stretched like taffy in the oven, sweet and unyielding.

The landscape outside is a smear of gray. Fields. Trees. More fields. The sky is the color of old dishwater. It does not rain. It hovers. It waits. You watch your own reflection in the darkened glass. It is a stranger. A ghost of a man. Or a woman. It is hard to tell in the dim light. Your face is pale. Your eyes are dark holes. You look tired. You look broken. You look like something that has been left out in the rain too long.

You know what you are doing. You know why you are doing it. You have rehearsed the speech a thousand times in the mirror. In the bathroom sink. In the shower. You have said it to the cat. To the wall. To the empty room. It always comes out wrong. The words stick in your throat like fish bones. They cut. They bleed. You swallow them down. You try again.

The bus stops. The driver announces the stop in a voice like gravel. He is a small man. He has a face like a dried apple. He looks at you. He sees the way you hold your bag. He sees the way your hands shake. He says nothing. He knows. They always know. The people in the small towns. They see everything. They say nothing. They are like the trees. They stand still. They watch. They let the wind do the work.

You step off the bus. The air is cold. It hits your face. It bites. You take a breath. It hurts. Your lungs are tight. They have been tight for months. Since the diagnosis. Since the news. Since the world tilted on its axis. You walk down the road. The road is long. It is straight. It goes nowhere. It goes everywhere. It goes to the house. The big house. The house with the white picket fence. The house that used to be warm. Now it is cold. Now it is a tomb.

You walk fast. Your heart beats in your chest. It is a drum. It is a hammer. It pounds against your ribs. You do not stop. You cannot stop. If you stop, you will run. If you run, you will go back. If you go back, you will die. You are already dead. The doctor said so. He said it in a voice that was soft. Kind. He looked at you with pity. Pity is a dirty word. Pity is a lie. You did not want pity. You wanted the truth. You wanted to know. And you knew. You knew before he spoke. You knew in your bones. In your blood. In the way the pain moved through you like a black thread.

The house is closer now. You can see the smoke from the chimney. It is thin. It is gray. It rises into the gray sky. It looks like a ghost. It looks like a prayer. You stop. You stand on the road. You look at the door. The door is brown. It is old. It has a knocker. The knocker is shaped like a lion. The lion has a mouth. The mouth is open. It is roaring. It is silent.

You ring the bell. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. It rings in your ears. It rings in your head. You wait. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. The seconds are long. The seconds are heavy. They crush you. You feel your weight. You feel your emptiness. You are nothing. You are a shadow. You are a breath.

The door opens. It is not him. It is her. His sister. Margaret. She is older than you remember. Her hair is white. Her face is lined. Her eyes are hard. They are like stones. They are like ice. She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not speak. She just looks. She sees you. She sees the bag. She sees the fear. She sees the hope.

"Go away," she says. Her voice is low. It is flat. It has no music. It has no warmth. It is a stone.

"I want to see him," you say. Your voice is small. It is a whisper. It is a plea.

"He is busy," she says.

"I have to see him."

"Go away."

"No."

The word is strong. It is hard. It is a wall. You do not move. You stand there. You stand still. You are the tree. You are the rock. You do not move. She looks at you. She sees your strength. She sees your desperation. She sees the fire in your eyes. The fire that is burning you up.

"Come in," she says.

The inside is cold. The air is stale. It smells of dust and old paper. It smells of decay. You walk down the hall. The floor creaks. The walls are bare. The pictures are gone. The furniture is covered in sheets. Ghosts. White ghosts. You walk past them. You walk toward the door at the end of the hall. The door is closed. It is dark. You can see a light under the door. A yellow light. A sick light.

You knock.

"Go away," a voice says. It is his voice. It is weak. It is thin. It is like a thread. It is like a spider’s web.

"I’m here," you say.

"Go away."

"I can’t go away."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

The silence is loud. It is a roar. It is a scream. It fills the room. It fills your head. It fills your chest. You hear his breathing. It is shallow. It is wet. It is like water trickling over stones. You hear the cough. It is dry. It is harsh. It is a tear in the fabric of the air.

"Open the door," you say.

"I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because I’m afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of you."

The words hit you. They hit you like a punch. They hit you like a knife. They cut deep. You stumble back. You hit the wall. The wall is cold. It is hard. It is unforgiving. You slide down. You sit on the floor. Your back is against the wood. Your legs are out in front of you. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are dirty. They are stained with dirt. They are stained with life.

You remember the last time you saw him. It was in the garden. The roses were red. They were bright. They were alive. He was holding a trowel. He was digging in the soil. His hands were dirty. His face was calm. He looked up at you. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. He said nothing. He just looked at you. And you knew. You knew it was the last time. You knew it was the end. You did not say goodbye. You could not say goodbye. The words were too big. The words were too heavy. You just stood there. You watched him. You watched him disappear into the earth.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. They are like jelly. You walk to the door. You lean against it. You press your ear to the wood. You listen. You hear the cough. You hear the breathing. You hear the silence.

"I’m here," you say. "I’m not going anywhere."

The door opens. It opens slowly. It creaks. It groans. It sounds like a dying animal. He is there. He is sitting in a chair. He is thin. He is pale. He is like a skeleton. His eyes are bright. They are clear. They are sharp. They are like diamonds. They are like stars.

He looks at you. He does not speak. He just looks. He sees you. He sees the fear. He sees the love. He sees the end.

"Come in," he says.

You step inside. The room is small. It is dark. There is a bed. There is a table. There is a window. The window is open. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is wet. It brings the smell of the earth. The smell of the rain. The smell of life. The smell of death.

You sit next to him. He does not move. He does not touch you. He just sits there. He looks at the window. He looks at the sky. The sky is gray. The sky is heavy. It is pressing down on the earth. It is pressing down on you.

"Did you come to save me?" he asks. His voice is soft. It is gentle. It is like a whisper.

"No," you say.

"Did you come to stay?"

"Yes."

"Can you do that?"

"I can try."

He looks at you. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a real smile. It is the first real smile in a long time. It is the last real smile in a long time.

"Stay," he says.

You stay. You sit there. You hold his hand. His hand is cold. It is dry. It is like paper. You hold it tight. You hold it with all your strength. You hold it with all your love. You hold it with all your fear.

The clock ticks. The tick is loud. The tick is clear. The tick is a heartbeat. The tick is a countdown. The tick is the end.

You do not speak. You do not need to speak. Words are unnecessary. Words are useless. Words are a lie. The hand is true. The breath is true. The silence is true.

The light fades. The room gets darker. The shadows grow longer. The shadows grow taller. The shadows reach for you. The shadows reach for him. The shadows take you. The shadows take him.

You are in the dark. You are in the cold. You are in the silence. You are in the pain. You are in the love. You are in the end.

You do not close your eyes. You keep your eyes open. You watch the light go out. You watch the color fade. You watch the world disappear. You watch the truth arrive.

The truth is heavy. The truth is hard. The truth is cold. The truth is free.

You let go.

You let go of the fear. You let go of the pain. You let go of the hope. You let go of the love. You let go of the self.

You are nothing. You are everything. You are the air. You are the light. You are the silence.

The hand moves. It is a small movement. It is a gentle movement. It is a final movement.

You feel it. You feel the warmth. You feel the life. You feel the end.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

The air is sweet. The air is clean. The air is free.

You are free.