***
In another life, they climbed to the hospital rooftop on a pale afternoon. Elara wore a thin gown, her skin almost translucent under the fading light.
"Draw the sky for me," she whispered.
"You should rest," he murmured, but she shook her head.
"I want to remember it," she said, her voice barely above the wind. "Even if I can't stay."
He drew: rough lines, quick strokes, the shape of clouds drifting across an indifferent sky.His hand trembled so badly the drawing blurred at the edges.
"Promise me you'll finish it," she whispered.
"I promise," he whispered back, though they both knew it was a promise already half-broken.
She leaned against his shoulder, her breath growing shallow.
The wind lifted strands of her hair, carrying them over the edge of the rooftop — a small scattering of dark silk against the sky.
Minutes later, all that remained was the unfinished sketch and the echo of her final sigh.
***