Two months later, at Brentwick Capital International Airport, I pushed my luggage cart into the departure hall.
A familiar voice called out from right behind me, "Dr. Harris!"
I spun around and spotted the young intern from my department sprinting toward me.
She clutched a bright bouquet of sunflowers in her hands, and her eyes glistened pink at the corners.
"You're really leaving, aren't you?" she said. "No one wants you to go..."
I took the flowers from her and gave her a gentle smile.
"It's only six months," I said. "I'm not gone forever."
She opened her mouth, then hesitated, words sticking in her throat.
"But..." she started.
I already knew what she was going to say.
Ethan had passed away in Brentwick three days earlier.
Multiple infections had ravaged his body; the end had
