Goodnight, Clara

I had been in love with Samuel for years.
Then one day, I suddenly asked him to leave, and he simply gave a quiet nod.
For many years after, we never saw each other again.
Not until I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, my death sentence signed and sealed.
I decided to hire a hospice care specialist to help me arrange my final affairs.
The man who knocked on my door was holding a beautifully polished wooden urn.
It was Samuel. He stood in the doorway, and his eyes met mine.

1.
His eyes were as calm and distant as I remembered. A young, fresh-faced boy stood just behind him.
Samuel glanced at me with a look of professional compassion, the kind reserved for strangers.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice gentle. “My name is Samuel Thorne, from the palliative care agency.”
He didn’t recognize me. Not at all.
Before the shock could even register, I found myself moving aside stiffly.
“Please, come in.”
He sat down and placed the wooden box gently on the coffee table, opening the lid. Inside lay several urns of different materials, each one looking exquisitely expensive.
“These are our samples. You can choose based on your preference,” he explained, his tone detached. “The materials vary, as do the price and symbolism.”
I curled into the sofa, digging my nails into my palms. The tiny flares of pain were the only thing keeping me grounded.
He pulled out a tablet and brought up a form.
“Next, we’ll need to confirm some of your specific wishes regarding the scale of the funeral service…”
I listened, a dull roar filling my head. His voice was still so beautiful, but now, every syllable was a tick of the clock, counting down the last moments of my life.
Finally, he asked, “And lastly, is there anything you’d like to have inscribed on your headstone?”
A wave of regret washed over me. “Can I request someone else?”
The words hung in the air, and the living room fell into a dead silence.
Samuel’s thin lips parted as if to speak, but the sound caught in his throat.
The young boy beside him looked at me, bewildered and indignant.
“My mentor is the most respected hospice specialist in the entire city! You’re lucky you got him. This is his last case before he goes on leave.”
“After this,” the boy added, “he’s going back to his hometown to get married.”
Hometown… to get married?
My heart dropped like a stone, a sudden, sickening plunge into nothingness. A cold, metallic tang of rust and sorrow flooded the back of my throat.
Ah. So that was it.
He had moved on. He had a better life now.
My ridiculous, hopeful little test just moments ago now seemed utterly pathetic. I turned my head, unable to meet Samuel’s gaze.
“Is that so…” I forced a smile that felt more painful than crying. “Well… then… congratulations. That’s wonderful.”
Samuel remained silent, his eyes fixed on me. The profound grief in his gaze was so heavy it threatened to drown me.
“Ms. Quinn.”
A cold sweat broke out on my skin. “How do you know my name?”
He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “The information you provided to our agency last month only included your name. Clara Quinn, correct?”
It hit me then. I had changed my name shortly after breaking up with him. It seemed the illness was stealing my memory along with everything else.

2.
In the end, I agreed to let him be my caregiver.
He had a home to return to, and I had a grave to prepare for.
After a round of chemo, I was leaving the hospital when I ran into him in the hallway.
“Ms. Quinn,” he began, his voice deeper and huskier than usual. “It would be better if you called me for future treatments.”
He paused, as if needing to justify the sudden offer. “It’s part of my professional duties.”
Those words, “professional duties,” were tiny needles against my already numb nerves.
I managed a weak smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary. This was my second-to-last treatment.”
“After the next one…”
After the next one, it would be the end.
“I won’t be coming back to the hospital.”
The sentence hung in the air, light and final. I felt the arm that had been supporting me suddenly tighten, the grip so strong it was almost painful.
“I thought you’d try to comfort me,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Aren’t you hospice specialists supposed to be experts at managing the emotions of the dying?”
Samuel let out a slow breath. “Your emotional state appears to be stable at the moment.”
He was right. Death was my foregone conclusion. I had no choice but to face it.
My physical condition began to deteriorate rapidly, my body withering into someone even I barely recognized.
But the fact that he didn’t recognize me… that was a small mercy. It became the single point of solace in my landscape of pain.
Looking at him, a huge, almost frantic wave of longing crashed over me.
My throat was painfully dry. “Mr. Thorne… could I ask you to… to stay here for a while?”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, dropping my gaze. “But I can’t even lift a glass of water on my own anymore.”
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
After a long moment, I heard him release a sigh, so quiet and so profound it seemed to carry the weight of the world.
“…Alright.”

3.
Samuel moved into the guest room next to my bedroom.
His presence was like a quiet shadow, filling the vast, empty house that had previously only echoed with the sound of my own coughing.
Every morning, I would wake to a fresh wave of pain. And every morning, he would appear at my side just in time, his arm sliding steadily under mine to help me sit up, arranging the pillows behind my back. He moved with a practiced ease that felt anything but new, as if he had done this a thousand times before.
On sunny afternoons, Samuel would help me to the lounge chair on the balcony, tucking a warm blanket snugly around me. He would tidy up nearby or simply sit with a book, a silent companion.
Sometimes, in the hazy twilight between consciousness and the drug-induced stupor, I would secretly open my eyes to watch him. The profile of his face was still so sharp and handsome, the sunlight gilding his features with a soft, golden halo. His fingers, long and clean, turned the pages of his book.
Once, those same hands had wiped away my tears.
The memories, like reefs exposed by a receding tide, emerged with painful clarity.
I remembered a rough patch early in our relationship. I had convinced myself that I had forced him into it, that he didn’t truly love me. He was always so reserved, so calm in everything he did for me. I felt unbearably wronged, yet I knew I had no right to be. One night, I ran out of our apartment in tears.
He was the one who found me. He didn’t say a word. He just took off his jacket, draped it over my shoulders, and then crouched down with his back to me.
“Get on,” he said, his voice muffled.
I stubbornly refused.
He sighed and looked back at me. “It’s late. We can argue at home.”
In that instant, all my anger and hurt simply evaporated. I climbed onto his broad back, my cheek pressed against his sweat-dampened shirt. He carried me all the way home, step by steady step, without another word.
And yet, that was the closest I ever felt to him.
Just like now.
He was still a man of few words, quietly taking care of everything. He would gently wipe the sweat from my neck, massage my swollen calves, and bring me warm water and painkillers when the pain made me curl into a ball.
In those moments, a dangerous illusion would sometimes take hold. It was easy to pretend that he was just a young husband who didn't know how to express his love, and that I was not a woman on the verge of death.
The warm light from the window fell on his downcast lashes. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to be enveloped by this treacherous fantasy.
Just for a little while.
Let me steal just this one moment.

4.
The day of my final chemotherapy session arrived.
Samuel placed the pills in my hand.
I swallowed them, avoiding his gaze. “Today… I can go by myself.”
The air grew still.
His calm eyes rested on my face, as if he had expected me to say this. The final treatment always brought the most violent reactions. Vomiting, fainting, a complete loss of control… I didn’t want him to see me like that. I wanted to hold onto that last shred of dignity I had managed to maintain.
He was silent for a long time before giving a barely audible reply. “Alright.”
At the hospital, the sterile, suffocating scent of antiseptic was more overwhelming than ever. As my consciousness began to blur, I bit down hard on my lip, fighting the rising nausea.
Suddenly, I felt a hand close around mine.
My eyes flew open. Samuel was standing by my bed.
He wasn’t looking at me; his gaze was fixed on the IV bag dripping fluid into my arm. In his silent presence, all my weakness, all my frailty, was laid bare.
On the way back, I was so exhausted I could barely move. I leaned back in the seat with my eyes closed, too weak to even speak. He, too, was silent for the entire ride.
When the car finally stopped in front of the house, he got out, came around to my side, and gently lifted me into his arms.
The dining table was covered with food.
They were all my old favorites.
I froze, gripping the doorframe, and stared at him as he took off his coat. He turned and met my incredulous gaze without a hint of surprise.
“Sit down and have a little. It’s okay to break the rules just this once.”
How… how could he know?
My heart leaped, and a powerful sense of dread washed over me. He saw the shock and confusion in my eyes and didn’t look away.
Then, he finally met my gaze directly, his voice low and clear, each word deliberate.
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Clara Rhodes,” he said, my old name a tremor on his lips, heavy with exhaustion.

5.
The sound of my name, spoken from his lips.
In that instant, the carefully constructed facade I had maintained for so long shattered into a million pieces.
He knew. He had known all along.
A wave of profound shame washed over me, corrosive and sickening. It was followed by a surge of furious grief, the feeling of being watched in my most vulnerable state.
How could he? How dare he, now, when I was at my absolute worst?
I summoned every last ounce of my remaining strength, my right hand trembling as I lifted it and swung it toward his face.
The sound was little more than a soft pat.
The sensation of my palm against his cheek was barely a sting. His head didn't even turn, and no red mark appeared.
“Get…” The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth. “Out.”
I don’t know why I reacted so violently. Perhaps it was because the memory of our past was so beautiful that it made my present reality all the more unbearable.
Samuel just stood there, stunned.
He looked into my eyes, his jawline tight. He didn’t argue, didn’t move. He just watched me.
After a few seconds of dead silence, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Alright.”
I sagged against the doorframe, gasping for breath as black spots danced in my vision. By the time the storm of emotion subsided, the house was empty.
He was gone.
A colossal wave of panic crashed over me.
What have I done?
Acting on pure impulse, I forced my weak body to move, making my way to his agency.
In the director’s office, I heard my own voice, shrill and sharp. “I want to file a complaint against Samuel Thorne… His service was completely unprofessional! I demand a new specialist immediately!”
The director tried to placate me, but I was adamant.
Soon, there was a knock, and Samuel walked in. His face was a calm mask, but his eyes were bloodshot. The director looked uneasily between us, about to mediate, when the office door was pushed open from the outside.
An elegantly dressed woman burst in. Her eyes scanned the room and landed on me.
“Ms. Quinn?” she asked, her tone overly familiar and urgent. She turned to Samuel. “Let me talk to her!”
She hurried over to me, trying to take my hand. “Samuel is just too dedicated to his work. I’m sure we can communicate any needs you have…”
Her words faded into a dull buzz in my ears.
Samuel’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in a low voice.
His fiancée. It had to be her.
I looked at this vibrant, healthy woman, then at my own reflection in the window—a gaunt, skeletal figure. An unprecedented wave of humiliation washed over me, and the world went dark.

6.
When I came to, the first thing I heard was the sound of hushed voices outside the door.
“…Sam, don’t worry too much. The doctor said it was just a temporary faint caused by emotional distress, and the fact that she’s so weak…”
It was a woman’s voice, soft and soothing.
“…I know.” Samuel’s voice was low and hoarse, laced with a bone-deep weariness he was trying to suppress. “But you shouldn’t have come. It only made things worse for her.”
Their voices dropped lower, and I couldn’t make out the rest.
I struggled to open my eyes, my blurry vision slowly coming into focus.
“You’re awake?”
I turned my head. It was Samuel’s young apprentice, Leo, peeling an apple. He looked uncomfortable when he saw me looking at him and awkwardly offered me the fruit. He avoided my eyes, his tone filled with a mixture of reluctance and resentment.
“…I really don’t know why you’d say those things about my mentor. For this one last case, he stayed up so many nights doing research for you. He’s even delayed his own personal matters… his fiancée came all this way today to see him…”
Leo was still mumbling his complaints, but my gaze drifted back to the doorway.
Samuel had his head turned slightly, listening to what the woman was saying. She reached up and, with a natural, familiar gesture, straightened his tie, which hadn’t even been crooked. It was an intimate, possessive gesture.
Just as I felt the last bit of thin air in my lungs about to give out, the door opened gently.
The woman walked in, an apologetic look on her face. She gave Leo a pointed glance, and the boy immediately fell silent and scurried out of the room.
Then, she turned to me, her voice so soft it was almost false. “Ms. Quinn, you’re awake. Are you feeling better? You gave us all quite a scare.”
She paused, her eyes shifting subtly between me and Samuel’s silhouette in the doorway. “Sam and I have talked. I reminded him that no matter how important his work is, he can’t neglect his client’s feelings. If you really don’t want to see him, I can take over for the remainder of the time. It’s all the same.”
She took a step closer, leaning in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “After all… you don’t have much time left. This is your final journey. You should be as comfortable as possible. Why cause yourself any more stress? Don’t you agree?”
You don’t have much time left.
A chill ran through me, but in the next second, the flicker of anger was smothered by a deeper exhaustion.
What had I been hoping for?
When I first heard he had a fiancée, a part of me refused to believe it. But now, with her standing right here in front of me…
Wake up, Clara. What are you still hoping for?
You should have understood the moment you got sick. You would only ever be a burden to him. He had finally escaped your shadow, built a normal life, a respectable career, and was about to marry a healthy, proper woman.
You are a sinking ship. Are you really going to try and drag him down with you right before you go under?
I looked into her eyes, and then past her, to the blurred figure in the doorway. A strange sense of calm settled over me.
I closed my eyes very slowly. “Okay.”

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