The two men exchanged a few words; then Henry hovered near the open doorway between the bedroom and the sitting room, aware that Amala was lying on the bed next to Kat and talking quietly to her. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but neither could he keep himself from observing them together in the dim glow of the lamps on the bedside tables. For all of the heartache and poignancy of such a scene, he couldn’t help seeing the beauty in it. Their deep and profound closeness in life was now culminating in their sharing the experience of death. He thought for a moment of how they’d been together when Amala’s parents had been killed, and found the present experience all the more poignant.

When Amala became quiet, as if she’d said all she needed to say, but remained on the bed beside her sister, Henry moved tentatively into the room, asking quietly, “Is it all right if I intrude now?”

“Of course,” Amala said. “Is it all right if I stay?”

“Of course,” he insisted, hoping his firm tone would let her know that he would never want to deprive her of her right to be with her sister to her last breath if that was what she wanted.

Henry sat for a long while in the chair next to the bed, holding Kat’s hand, keenly aware of every tiny bit of evidence that she was still alive. He wondered how long this waiting might go on. He felt tired but not sleepy; still, he feared he might fall asleep and miss that moment of transition. He wanted to be with her when she left, even if she had no awareness of his presence. He focused on her face, still so beautiful in spite of the way it had become painfully thin and gaunt. Given how much time he’d spent watching her sleep like this for weeks now, he couldn’t help noticing that a change had taken place in her countenance. He pondered it for several minutes before he said to Amala, “She looks different. She looks more . . . at peace.”

“I noticed the same,” Amala said. “She’s ready to go.” The statement came with tears, which provoked the same from Henry, and he wiped them off his face with a quick brush of his free hand. “If only I felt ready to let her go,” Amala said.

“Yes, I know what you mean. She’s barely been aware of life for so long, I thought I’d be more prepared. But the finality of it all still feels . . . unbearable.”

“Exactly,” Amala said, reminding Henry of how well they had always understood each other, how much they thought and felt the same. Their eyes met briefly as if to exchange the silent declaration that they were of one mind; then they both turned their full attention to Kat.