Chance couldn’t recognize his own wife. Though he spent many years waking up beside her, he couldn’t bring himself to feel he’d known the poor woman laying before him. But there she was; in white sheets, a hospital gown, and with a pale, sickly face that had tubes going in it. Chance felt his stomach churn at her condition.

He remembered a time when she was young, and healthy. Every morning—when the sun shone through the scarlet curtains that hung in their room—his wife would wake up, and smile at him. Her smile was pretty; her eyes were bright and green; and when the sun fell on her just right, her golden hair would shine. In a soft voice she would say to him: “good morning, darling.” Yes, he remembered that well.

The woman before him was a far cry from the woman he’d known. But in spite of this he found himself leaning over her bed, and placing his lips on her forehead; as if he’d never known the difference.