He pulled apart another one today. Ib would have to remember to pick another one up before she left for work. Otherwise, he would destroy her pillows again. She picked up piece after piece of ragdoll: the button mouth, a bit of raggedy hair, and a fragment of the dress. She loyally picked up every piece, the same way she had done since the diagnosis. Then she heard him.
“Where is she? Where is she?”
She followed the voice to their bedroom, and there he was, on the floor, running his hands up and down the floorboard as if something might magically materialize if he just rubbed hard enough. It pained her to see him now when she could still see how he was so clearly before.
The fading purple locks, now a sickly gray color, and even his eyes were stained gray with cataracts he refused to admit were there. Doctors said it didn’t matter. He didn’t have much time left anyway. It wasn’t “worth the trouble.”
Oh, but if only they knew how much he was wor