He was dying. We both grieved each other: I didn’t want to lose him, and he knew I would be a wreck alone.
The bedroom was alight in faint hues beaming through the stained glass.
One of the rays illuminated the wall in his vision. He caught sight of something, and finally spoke.
I turned and looked, where I thought his gaze went. The spectrum danced, but there was nothing in crimson.
Sobbing uncontrolably, I asked. What is?
The pending lifelessness paused him, but his failing breath pushed out his final five words.
“My favourite colour. It’s red.”