Kai fell first.
A heart attack, sudden and terrifying. He survived, but something shifted. He was frailer now, more careful. Time felt precious in ways it hadn't before.
"I'm not ready to lose you," Lina admitted one night.
"You won't lose me. Not really." He held her close. "I'll always be with you. In the music. In the children. In your heart."
"Don't talk like that."
"We have to talk like that. We're old, Lina. We don't have forever."
"We have now."
"Yes. And now is beautiful."
The years that followed were gentle.
They traveled less, stayed home more. Watched grandchildren grow. Held each other through the nights.
Lina wrote less—her last novel published to acclaim, then silence. She'd said everything she needed to say.
Kai composed less too. A few pieces, quiet and reflective. Music for the end of things.
But their love never quieted.