The alarm was a scream in the midnight air.
Arthur had pulled the mask off again. He was gasping, his chest heaving with an effort that his 82-year-old body couldn't sustain. Sarah was there in seconds, her face a mask of panic as she forced the oxygen back into his lungs.
"Breathe! Stay with me, Arthur!" she pleaded.
He settled, the frantic rhythm of his heart slowly finding a steady pace. But his eyes remained fixed on the corner of the room.
Sarah realized that for Arthur, the oxygen mask wasn't a lifeline—it was a barrier. It was the thing that kept him from the final breath he shared with the woman he loved for sixty years.
"Every breath you take is a tribute to her, Arthur," Sarah whispered. "She gave you her life. Don't throw it away in the dark."
He looked at her then, really looked at her. For the first time, the hollow eyes seemed to hold a flicker of something other than grief.