He is about to close his eyes as she appears at his bedside; it is as if she has aged along with him, but still she glows the way she did when he first set eyes on her, and suddenly he is lost in the time they had together—those beautiful golden years, filled with heartbreak and war and suffering, but all he remembers is her.
He remembers how she was before the warmth left her, the tears of that joy so fleeting rolling down his cheeks; her eyes, her smile, their daughter, their family, the future—
He remembers dancing in their flat to the music in her head as she hummed into his collarbone; he remembers how she was never quite able to conceal her smile whenever she mentioned "their" flat.
He remembers the roll of her hips from that first night, how she had come alive under his hands in a way he hadn't seen before (but was not at all surprised by).
He remembers the click of her heel as she made her way into the garage. He had grown accustomed to and come to anticipate her steps but was still always so surprised when she did come to him. The disbelief at what his life became, the course it took, the complete revolution in the shape of one woman, still lingers.
He remembers her nurse's uniform, and how enamored she as with having a purpose, how she was so bright it was almost blinding.
He remembers how his world tilted around the axis that was her touch, how he shattered each time they made contact, how he wanted—still—to melt into her, to build a home inside her skin.
He remembers falling in love with her ankles, her voice, her eyes, her passion, her laugh, her.
Sybil.
She takes his hand, and he is ready.