The years that followed were a slow descent into helplessness.
Herrin's body continued to fail him, to the point that even sitting upright became an ordeal that left him breathless and trembling.
His bed soon became his entire world, along with a room he had memorised long ago. Despite the kind visits and check-ins from the others, he felt so down.
Hiln cared for him.
She washed him, fed him, and changed his soiled linens without complaint. She was twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen, and with each passing year, the weight of responsibility settled more heavily on her young shoulders.
He wept often.
Not from the pain, though there was plenty of that. He wept because this was not the life she was meant to have. She should have been running through meadows, laughing with friends, dreaming about her future. Instead, she spent her youth tending to a dying man who could offer her nothing in return.
