The blood was a dark stain on the pristine blue of Sarah’s scrubs.
Arthur had pulled the IV with such force that the needle had grazed his skin. He didn't seem to care. He was looking at the door, as if expecting someone to walk through it.
"Stop right now!" Sarah commanded, her voice firm despite the lump in her throat.
She bandaged the arm, her movements efficient and practiced. Arthur was weak, his energy spent.
""She died right here," he whispered, his eyes never leaving the doorway. "I never left. I’ve been sitting in this chair, in this room, in this memory for three years. I'm tired of waiting.""
Sarah realized that Arthur hadn't been living for three years. He had been a ghost haunting his own life.
"It's time to go home, Arthur," she said softly. "Not the home you’re thinking of. The one where life is."
He looked at her, and for the first time, he let go of her hand.