When the familiar melody drifted through the recreation room, Catherine’s smile lit up her face.
“Our prom song,” she whispered.
Daniel stood slowly, joints protesting, and extended his hand.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
She smiled, placing her hand in his. “You are 65 years late.”
“Better late than never,’ he replied.
They swayed gently, careful and unsteady, but together. Around them, other residents watched quietly, some smiling, some wiping away tears.
Daniel felt as though time had folded in on itself. The crepe paper and silver stars were gone, replaced by softer lighting and slower steps, but the feeling remained.
When the song ended, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I should have never let you go. I will always regret that,” he murmured.
Catherine shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “We lived the lives we were meant to live. And somehow, they led us back.”
They did not speak of lost years again. Instead, they focused on the days to come, no matter how few remained.
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