left.
That night, I sat beside David’s bed.
His old Seiko rested on the nightstand.
Earlier that week, I had quietly taken it to a repair shop.
The scratched crystal had finally become difficult to read.
So I replaced it.
The new glass was perfectly clear.
You could see the hands again.
I looked at my husband sleeping in the house we had shared for forty-four years.
The man who had spent decades fixing broken things.
The man who had anticipated my limits before I was willing to admit I
