The winter lasted longer than usual that year. The frost lingered on the grass well into March, turning the blades brittle and gray. Inside the cottage, the heating hummed constantly, a steady background noise that had become as familiar as Marcus's breathing.
I was in the kitchen, preparing his medication. The pill organizer was a weekly ritual now. Monday morning, Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning. Each slot filled with small, colorful pills that kept the pain at bay, that kept the confusion at bay, that kept him here.
Marcus was in the living room. I could hear the television on low. He watched old documentaries now. Nature shows. History programs. Things that didn't require him to follow a complex plot. He had stopped reading the foundation reports two months ago. Eleanor handled ev
