Rain tapped steadily against the windows of my small apartment as I reflected on the lonely life I had built after returning to my hometown. At seventy-three, I worked as a nurse, carrying more memories than possessions. The most persistent interruption to my quiet days came from my cousin Raymond, whose constant phone calls disguised greed as concern. He asked about my savings, my home, and my future with unsettling interest, always reminding me that family should look after family. His words never comforted me—they only deepened my unease.

Everything changed the day I entered room 220 at the local hospital. Lying in the bed was Thomas, the boy I had loved at seventeen before life carried us in different directions. Though terminally ill, he welcomed me with the same warmth I remembered from decades earlier. As we spent time together, our lost years seemed to disappear. Then, one afternoon, Thomas took my hand, looked into my eyes, and asked me to become his wife…