—Let's talk in the kitchen—he proposed in a serious voice, not looking me in the eyes. He just headed towards that place, and I couldn't do anything but follow him because I didn't understand what was happening. Was he dying every day? Was I losing him with each passing day?
When I reached the kitchen, Arthur, as if I hadn't shown him the handkerchief or as if that matter was irrelevant, took out a vase for flowers. I didn't even know we had something like that. He placed them on the window and then took out two cups to serve some tea, and while he was heating the water, he sat at the table and took out a tray of strawberry tarts.
—Sit down—he pointed to the seat next to him, so I did, I sat beside him, but even before he said anything, I was already crying.
He took my hand and with the
