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She held his hand. Read to him. Told him about the weather, the bills, the neighbors’ dog. She talked as if he could hear every word, because on some level, she believed he could.
Every single day.
Then one afternoon, something changed.
She froze, afraid to breathe.
His eyes opened—slowly, unfocused at first, then clearer. He blinked at the ceiling, the machines, the room. Then he turned his head toward her and motioned weakly for her to come closer.
He swallowed, gathering strength. His voice was raspy, barely above a whisper.
She nodded eagerly, smiling through tears.
Her chest tightened. She squeezed his hand gently.
“When I lost my job,” he continued, “you were there for me.”