The man watched, his heart breaking as his wife moved through the motions, her body weak, her spirit unbroken. He could see everything, but still, nothing felt real. His thoughts raced—Can she hear me? Can she see me?
He watched her, still pale, her body recovering from the surgery that had saved her life. She woke up after a couple of hours of sleep, looking around as if searching for something, or someone. And then, their eyes met. Or at least, he thought they did. He rushed to her side, his voice trembling as he asked, "Do you see me? Can you see me?" But the woman's eyes remained fixed, not moving in response to his desperate plea. Tears welled up in her eyes, and with a sharp intake of breath, she slowly moved to get out of the bed.
His heart skipped a beat. Why is she getting up? His thoughts screamed. Sit down, please. Where are you going? But his words were nothing more than silent pleas in the air. She continued, undeterred, changing her clothes and preparing to leave the room.
Before he could react, a nurse entered, confusion on her face. "Where are you going?" the nurse asked, trying to intervene as she noticed his wife getting dressed. She was supposed to be resting, not leaving.
His wife bit her lip, a look of determination crossing her features. "I need to go," she said, and with that, she finished dressing, grabbed her phone from her pocket, and tried to leave the room.
The man was paralyzed by confusion, frustration, and a deep ache in his chest. What is she doing? Why is she leaving? He tried again to speak, but of course, she couldn't hear him. He watched helplessly as the nurse attempted to stop her, but his wife simply brushed her off. The nurse could do nothing as she hurried out of the hospital room, ignoring all attempts to get her to stay.
He followed her instinctively, a soul bound by unseen threads. He could fly, hover, and follow her wherever she went. He watched as she walked through the streets, a pace frantic yet strained. The woman groaned in pain, clutching her stomach. The man's eyes widened with concern. She's still in pain—why is she doing this? He could feel her suffering, even if he couldn't touch her. The technology, the advancements in medicine—they didn't matter when it came to pain like this.
His wife pressed on, determined, even as her body screamed in protest. She stopped, catching her breath, and then walked toward a pharmacy. The man felt his heart tighten. She can't be serious...
Inside the pharmacy, the exchange between the woman and the pharmacist was tense. She approached the counter, her voice laced with urgency. "I want some painkillers," she demanded, her words sharp, yet shaky. The man shouted inside his mind, Are you insane? Painkillers? You just had surgery!
But of course, she couldn't hear him. The woman only spoke again, her tone quieter now, more insistent. The pharmacist, unsure of the woman's condition, hesitated. "Do you have a prescription from the doctor?" he asked, his eyes scanning her face. Without the receipt, there was no way he could give her the strong painkillers she was asking for.
She didn't have the receipt, and yet, she was adamant. "I need the medicine," she said with quiet resolve, her eyes unwavering.
The pharmacist's hesitation remained, but something shifted when he noticed something in the woman's appearance—a familiarity, something about her that made him falter. His demeanor suddenly softened. "If you have the receipt, I can give it to you. But it's a strong medicine, you need to be careful."
The woman's patience was wearing thin. She pulled out her purse, a small pouch, and slammed it down on the counter in frustration. Do you even need to ask me for a receipt?
The man's heart broke for her, for the way she was pushing through the pain, her will to do something—anything—to keep moving forward. She wasn't letting herself fall apart, even when everything inside her was breaking.
The pharmacist, noticing her identity, immediately realized his mistake. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he stammered. "I didn't know it was you. Of course, I'll get you the medicine right away."
The woman nodded, her face pale, but determined. The man stood there, still unable to reach her, unable to ease her pain, and watched as the pharmacist handed her the painkillers.
She didn't look back as she left the store. She simply walked away, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And still, her husband—no longer truly alive—followed her silently, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could take away her suffering, that he could hold her, touch her, and make things right. But he was nothing more than a ghost.
He watched, unseen, as his wife staggered toward the hall. The air was thick with ceremony, heavy with the kind of reverence only reserved for men who had given their lives to something greater. This hall—the grand hall—was where the country honored its greatest soldiers and government officers. Here, they gave the highest tribute, but only after death. It was a place revered by those who had sacrificed everything for the country, and now it was supposed to be his final resting place. His funeral.
His wife, though, didn't go inside. She didn't move toward his body, nor did she approach the dignitaries gathered in their somber procession. Instead, she hid behind a pillar, standing just far enough away to observe but not participate. His gaze fixed on her, watching the delicate curve of her back as she hunched in silent pain. Even after the painkillers had kicked in, he could see how much she was suffering.
She looked toward the ceremony, her eyes scanning the mourners. His mother, devastated, collapsed again and again as the weight of loss crushed her. His younger brother, trembling, clutched the Medal of Honor—the medal that every soldier dreamed of, the very thing that signified the highest contribution to the nation. And yet, his wife stood there, hidden in the shadows, away from it all. Why wasn't she stepping into the spotlight, taking her place as the one who had shared his life, his burdens, his honor?