"I—"
"Go on," he said gently, and shut his eyes, his hands at his side, waiting.
She stared into his face and then at his chest, where under his shirt there seemed the gentlest stirring.
"Now," he said quietly.
She almost moved.
"Now," he said, for a final time.
She took one step forward. She turned her head and quietly moved her right ear down and then again down, inch by inch, until it touched the young man's chest.
She might have cried out, but did not. She might have exclaimed something, but did not. Her eyes were also shut now and she was listening. Her lips moved, saying something, perhaps a name, over and over, almost to the rhythm of the pulse she heard under the shirt, under the flesh, within the body of the patient young man.
The heart was beating there.
She listened.
The heart beat with a steady and regular sound.
She listened for a long while. Her breath slowly drained out of her, as color came into her cheeks.
She listened.
The heart beat.
Then she raised her head, looked at the young man's face for a final time, and very swiftly touched her lips to his cheek, turned, and hurried across the room, with no thanks, for none was needed. At the door she did not even turn around but opened it and went out and closed the door softly.
The young man waited for a long moment. His right hand came up and slid across his shirt, across his chest to feel what lay underneath. His eyes were still shut and his face emotionless.
Then he turned and sat down without looking where he sat and picked up his coffee cup to finish his coffee.
The strong pulse, the great vibration of the life within his chest, traveled along his arm and into the cup and caused it to pulse in a steady rhythm, unending, as he placed it against his lips, and drank the coffee as if it were a medicine, a gift, that would refill the cup again and again through more days than he could possibly guess or see. He drained the cup.
Only then did he open his eyes and see that the room was empty.