My husband, Julian, called me early in the morning from the airport.
"I'm about to board," he said, his voice hoarse from the usual travel fatigue. "I'll be busy, but I'll call you tonight."
"Take care," I replied. "Don't overdo it."
It was the same routine we had been following for fifteen years.
Travel. Meetings. Endless projects.
I had gotten used to greeting him on the phone instead of in person.
That phone call didn't feel any different to me.
In the middle of the afternoon, I received a text from my friend Clara. Her daughter had been hospitalized with a lung infection. The doctors said it wasn't serious, but she needed to be kept under observation.
Clara and I had been friends since high school; a bond that endures time, distance, and life's changes. I couldn't ignore her.
I bought some flowers and went to the hospital.
It was one of those private clinics that smelled of disinfectant, and there was a deathly silence.
The elevator seemed unbearably slow.
I remember the metallic sound of the doors opening, the long, white, almost empty corridor. Everything seemed normal.
Until I heard a voice.
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