The world outside was moving on, but inside this narrow hospital room, time seemed to coil around itself. I lay motionless, my body sinking into the mattress, feeling the weight of my own breaths. The sky outside shifted from gold to indigo, and every heartbeat felt precious—each one a gentle reminder that I was still here, for now.

My gaze wandered across the faded photographs taped to the wall. Laughter frozen in time, faces I loved and lost, moments I would never relive. I reached for the letter, its edges softened by countless readings, and let my fingers trace the familiar handwriting. Memories welled up, bittersweet and sharp, filling the quiet with whispers of what once was.

Anna, my daughter, stepped inside, her presence lighting up the gloom. She sat beside me and took my hand, her grip warm and trembling. "You always loved sunsets," she whispered, her voice wavering as she brushed a stray hair from my forehead. I smiled, weak but sincere, the love between us stronger than any words.

I turned my head toward Anna, summoning the strength to speak. "I wish I had more time, more stories to tell you. But this—this might be my last," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. She squeezed my hand tighter, tears slipping down her cheeks, but she smiled through them, refusing to let go.

We sat there in silence, our fingers entwined, listening to the rhythm of life winding down. My breath grew shallower, but I felt no fear—only gratitude. Everything I wanted to say hung in the air between us, unspoken but understood, and the love I held for Anna seemed to fill the room, vast and endless.

As my eyes fluttered closed, I heard Anna's voice, soft and strong, carrying me onward. "I'll remember everything, I promise," she said, her words wrapping around me like a lullaby. With my last breath, I let go, holding onto the certainty that love endures, even as everything else fades into night.