By seven o’clock, the autumn shadows had stretched across the linoleum floor of Room 312.
The hospital chaplain, a small man with a worn black binder, stood near the window while Nurse Evelyn remained near the door, her hand still resting on her ID badge.
“We are gathered here in the presence of God,” the chaplain began, his voice soft against the steady beep of the monitor.
I stood close to the bed, holding Ben’s hand. I slipped my father’s brass signet ring onto my own thumb to keep it safe during the ceremony, its weight pulling on my hand.
