The question hung between them like a held breath. Martha, seated loyally by his bedside, froze. She had spent the last several weeks tending to Henry with unwavering devotion—arranging pillows, spoon-feeding soup, smoothing his hair, and reading aloud from old journals that chronicled the story of their long life together. She believed she knew every memory, every triumph, every small failure they had shared. But this question was one she had hoped would never arise. She looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring—a nervous habit she’d developed in her youth and never outgrown.

For a brief moment, she considered deflecting with gentle words or reassuring silence. But Henry’s eyes, though dimmed with illness, held an earnestness she could not dismiss. He wanted the truth. He deserved the truth. Taking a measured breath, she nodded and said softly, “Yes, Henry. Three times. But always for a good reason.” The air shifted. Henry’s eyes widened, registering shock, hurt, and bewilderment all at once. This was not the answer he had braced for. Yet beneath the surprise was a flicker of curiosity—three times? And for good reason? He swallowed, steadied himself, and whispered, “Tell me.”