Near the end of the third month, I couldn’t stand wondering anymore. I stepped out of my car and walked toward him. My footsteps crunched on the gravel, but he didn’t turn. His hand stayed pressed against her name carved in stone, as though he were gathering the courage to speak to someone who wasn’t there anymore.

“Excuse me,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Mind telling me who you are?” He stood slowly, brushing dust from his jeans. Up close he looked older than I expected, with kind eyes that carried the weight of something difficult. For a moment, he seemed unsure of what to say. Then he exhaled softly and nodded. “Your wife,” he said, “was my nurse.” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “Last year, before she passed, I was recovering from a bad accident. I wasn’t easy to deal with. I was angry. Impatient. She never judged me. She helped me regain strength—and hope—when I didn’t believe either was possible.”