My name is Rosemary. I’m 78. Henry and I have been married nearly 60 years.
We met in high school chemistry because our last names were side by side. He made me laugh. We married at 20, worked at the same factory, raised four children, and now have grandchildren and a great-grandchild.
Every night he still says, “I love you, Rosie.” He knows how I take my tea. He notices when I go quiet.
Henry had one rule for decades:
“Don’t go into my garage.”
The garage was his space—late-night jazz, the smell of paint thinner, the door sometimes locked. I respected it. After 60 years, you learn everyone needs a corner of their own.
But recently, something felt different. He watched me with worry, not romance.
One afternoon he left his gloves behind. I assumed he was in the garage and went to give them to him. The door was slightly open. Dust floated in the light.
Inside, every wall was covered with portraits of a woman—laughing, crying, sleeping, aging. In the corners were dates. Some were in the future.
I pulled one down. “Who is she?”
Henry stood behind me. “I asked you not to come in.”
“Who is this woman?”
He swallowed. “I paint to hold on to time.”
I walked out shaking.
Days later, I saw him take cash from the safe and leave in his good jacket. I followed him. He went to a private neurology clinic.
From the hallway I heard the doctor say, “Her condition is progressing faster than expected.”
“How much time?” Henry asked.
“Three to five years before serious decline.”
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