Just shy of midnight she sobs into her pillow. Gut wrenching, heartbreaking soul-searing expulsions of unmitigated sadness.
Down the hall, behind a sterile and locked door he offers a handkerchief, white, unsullied, starched and ironed to perfection.
Fat lot of good it does to hold out a hand that she’ll never see. But it’s all he has. All he can risk, this offer of quiet condolence.