THE END OF A MOMENT
In a breath, it ends.
Just like that, gone.
You watch it slip away, eyes wide, a lone tear streaking down your cheek. You raise a hand, as if to catch it, as if all you have to do is touch it and you will feel it again, warm and soft and so very alive—but then you let your hand fall.
You turn as your wife enters, smiling and then not, eyes wise and knowing as she looks at you. She comes to stand beside you, silent, understanding; accepting.
You stand together, side by side, staring out the window, watching it float away, barely a speck now in the night sky.
Perhaps it will reach someone else. Perhaps it will warm them, as it warmed you. Perhaps what strength it has stolen from you, leaving you feeling cold and shaky, your heart an icicle in your chest—perhaps that stregnth will uplift someone else.
It isn’t quite a comfort.
But it’s enough.
At last, you turn away. You share a glance with your wife—she nods, once—and you step into the room together, the night forgotten behind you.
And somewhere far, far away, someone else holds out their hand. It floats into it, so small, so soft, so warm and alive. That someone smiles, takes a deep, deep breath and just breathes it in—and somewhere deep in their chest they feel something spark and brighten, like a coal catching fire.
And, for a moment, there is warmth.