She stroked the side of her face, slowly running her fingers down her cheek and onto her neck, just like he used to. She closed her eyes and wondered if she could make herself feel the same way he made her feel. If she could recreate the same passionate tingle in her body, a feeling of euphoria but of blissfulness too. For a whole hour she lay there with her eyes closed, her hand making the same movements time and time again, in the hope that she could have enough strength to move. Nobody had enough strength to tell her but her time was coming to an end, their smiles hiding immense pain and distress. But she knew.

And after laying there for days, absolutely still, (because even the tiniest strain on her body made her feel a thousand times weaker than before) she felt a hand, warm and familiar, rest on her cheek and stroke her neck. Those long fingers she knew too well, the way he smelled, not like anything but only like himself.

She opened her eyes and there he was. His eyes were wearing the same mask that her mother wore every day, in the hope that she wouldn’t notice. She knew that her skin had lost its glow, it was pale. Her eyes were simply two empty sockets, her lips dry and stripped of color. He managed a little smile. They did not speak a word to each other – their eyes were engaging in conversation. All she wanted to do was to sit and stare at the magical being that he was.

She grabbed his hand and placed it on her heart, so he could feel her heartbeat.

She closed her eyes.

A tear escaped her eye.

It was now that she could slip away quietly, slowly and peacefully.

This was the last memory of her life that she wanted to retain, the only moment that meant anything to her.

This was her last memory.