She likes to stare at the ring on her finger when she thinks.
It's still the same silver band he had offered to her sheepishly some sixty years ago, with a tiny diamond set into the middle that glittered fitfully in the half-gloom of the bedroom.
The curtains are drawn over the windows, but light still manages to filter through somehow.
She can't leave the room without assistance – if she even tries to get up alone she'll get light-headed and end up on the floor – but that suited her just fine. She doesn't have the energy to be frustrated that she can't do anything by herself anymore; all of her strength is spent battling this invisible enemy inside, the virus that is slowly trying to kill her.
Pneumonia. She doesn't even know how she got it. She's sure Henry has a theory, but she's never awake enough to ask him when he examines her.
She tries to make herself look at least a bit better whenever he comes in, looking haggard and pale, to ensure she is comfortable and to give her the medicine he'd been able to smuggle from work.
Hospital is out of the question – even if they weren't curious about their marital status, they probably wouldn't allow Henry to treat her because of his emotional attachment to her.
They can only make do with what they have.
From what she understands, Abe has taken it upon himself to handle the day to day chores as she lies in bed, sick as a dog, while Henry desperately worked to keep her alive and find a cure. Henry hasn't slept in weeks, tirelessly checking her fever every hour and researching the best ways to deal with pneumonia.
She tries to tell him to calm down, take it easy, but he brushes off her concern with the ease of one who is in denial.
But for once, she isn't in denial. She can clearly see how this story ends.
Henry can't see it. Abe won't want to.
So she lays in the dark, staring at her diamond ring, wondering what exactly it is she should do.
A/N: ANGST. I'm sorry.
~Persephone