Pale streams of sunlight split the room into soft chiaroscuro. The summer turned slowly to fall, leaves afire and crisp in the autumnal air. They were closer than ever to the sea here, a wish of Marin's, of course - the water washed against the pierside beyond the window, bringing a soft squall smelling of salt and citrus.

Marin was in stage four. Her otherwise fair skin took on a light amber tone, as had the whites of her eyes. She had started to have trouble breathing, the sound of air dragging its way out of her lungs more frequent these cold days. The doctors had said any day could be her last. Albie barely heard it; he couldn't hear it.

He had spent the subsequent weeks by her side, ever the loyal husband. Devotee. They said there was nothing that could be done, that the healthiest course of action was to keep her company, keep her happy, in her final weeks. He knew that. He didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything at all, mostly, but temporary elation, just knowing she was still alive. For now.

Today was a good day for her. She woke up earlier than what was usual, the sunken cheeks of her beautiful face lit by the late August sun. Her eyes were bright and aware, still with that discerning glint in which you knew she was incredibly clever. Albie could only admire her, even in this waking nightmare. How could he not? His wife, his wonderful companion. The pearl of his sea. Moon of his sky.

Marin smiled at him when she awoke; the adoration blew through his very bones, in an instant. They were too young for this, surely. Too young to be counting down the days to the end of everything. What God could befall such a fate to the mere lovers they were?

_"Chéri_," she breathed, hair all abloom upon the pillow. "Play a game with me, will you?" Her fingers weakly found the edge of the chessboard by her bed.

Albie smiled, a wan thing but something that hadn't occurred to him in weeks. "Of course, old girl."

He knew he would not have to let her win. She could do that herself, easily. That was one of the things he loved most about her, her dangerous intelligence - her wit, her charm. The chess game was a tradition they kept since they first fell in love. And so, their last began in the sheets of her hospital bed. Her deathbed, no less.

When they played, Albie had hardly watched the chessboard, in truth. He studied his Marin, drinking in her features, memorising every freckle, every curve of her cheek or brow. The traces of the woman she was before cancer. Her sharp, muddy-green eyes. Her hands, the chipped red varnish, the harp callouses. How he loved her.

She won, of course she did. With a giggle, wonderfully youthful and sweet, she hoisted herself up.

"Mar! What are you doing?" Albie exclaimed, gently pushing her back to bed to no avail.

"_Chéri_, stop," Marin simply smiled. And he did. "We don't have long." She held out her trembling arms, open to receive a dance partner.

Albie could barely breathe. Then, he knew he was grieving something that was not yet gone. No matter time, no matter universes - Marin was alive, and that was all he needed. He took her hands.

The room was warm and quiet, the cries of distant gulls and the gentle crashing of waves the only sound for miles. They swayed to no music, just their breathing and heartbeats, in the dark pale of autumnlight. And it was alright.