Every Thursday at 4:00 p.m., Leila visited Room 11 of the Greenhaven Assisted Living Center. She brought her husband, Marcus, a slice of chocolate cake and a new story.

To the nurses, she was known as “the loyal one.” In a place full of forgotten elders and quiet corridors, Leila’s visits brought something alive. Even Marcus, who hadn’t spoken a full sentence in five years, would light up the moment she entered the room.

He no longer remembered her name. Or their house. Or the smell of her perfume he used to say reminded him of fresh rain. But he always smiled when he saw her, as if his soul still recognized what his memory had long since erased.

Marcus had early-onset Alzheimer’s. Diagnosed at 58, he’d once been a high school literature teacher, the kind that quoted Neruda in conversation and cried reading Steinbeck aloud to teenagers. He was witty, gentle, the man who made pancakes every Sunday shaped like animals, just to make Leila laugh.

But then he began forgetting where he put his keys. Then the names of his students. Then how to find home after a walk around the block.

By 61, he barely spoke.

Leila kept him at home as long as she could. She installed rails in the bathroom, labeled every drawer, turned their guest room into a safe space for when he panicked and forgot who she was. But the day he wandered out during a snowstorm and was found barefoot three hours later, crying and cold, she knew it was time.

She moved him to Greenhaven. And every Thursday, she visited.

What made it stranger for others was that Leila was only 56. Too young, they thought. Too radiant. She had long auburn hair, soft eyes, and a laugh that still turned heads. Neighbors, friends, even strangers encouraged her to move on.

“You have so much life left,” they’d say. “He’s not even the same man anymore.”

But what they didn’t understand was that Leila had made a vow — not just to Marcus, but to the version of herself that believed love wasn’t only meant for the good days.

He had stood with her when she miscarried their first child. He had held her mother’s hand the day she passed. He had made soup when she was sick, sent flowers to her work just because, and once memorized her entire favorite novel just to surprise her with a live reading.

He had loved her through everything.

So she would love him through this.

But what no one knew — not the nurses, not her friends, not even her grown daughter — was that Leila had a secret of her own.

A secret she carried in the bottom drawer of her nightstand in the form of a yellowed letter.

It was from a man named Thomas.

They met two years after Marcus had moved into Greenhaven, during a book club at the local library. He was charming, intelligent, and gentle — not in the same way Marcus had been, but quietly comforting, like a warm blanket on a rainy evening.

They began talking every week. Then, dinners. Then walks. He never pressured her, never asked more than she was ready to give. But one night, as they stood beneath a tree shedding its leaves, he kissed her.

Leila didn’t pull away.

The next morning, guilt flooded her like a storm. She sat beside Marcus that Thursday and wept silently while feeding him cake.

That night, she wrote Thomas a letter:

“You deserve more than a fraction of someone’s heart. I am still someone’s wife. Even if he no longer knows. And I still belong beside him. I hope you understand.”

She never sent it.

Instead, she folded it carefully and placed it in her drawer.

She hadn’t seen Thomas since.

Now, four years later, she still went to Room 11. Still fed Marcus cake. Still read him poetry, even though his eyes often wandered to the ceiling.

One Thursday, something unexpected happened.

As she was reading from their favorite book, The Little Prince, Marcus suddenly reached out and placed his hand over hers. His fingers were cold, thin, fragile — but they held on tight.

She stopped reading.

His eyes, cloudy and distant, fixed on hers. And then, in a voice so soft she almost thought she imagined it, he said:

“You never left.”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“No, my love,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I never left.”

He didn’t say anything else. In fact, that was the last thing Marcus ever said.

He passed away in his sleep three days later.

At the funeral, people came in waves. Former students, old neighbors, even a few nurses from Greenhaven. Everyone had a story about Marcus — the teacher, the mentor, the man who once brought a stray dog into class because “he needed literature too.”

Leila sat quietly in the front row, fingers curled around a blue silk handkerchief Marcus had given her when they were first dating. It still smelled faintly of cedar and rose.

After the service, as the last guests trickled out, someone approached her from behind.

It was Thomas.

His hair had more silver now. He looked older, but the kindness in his eyes hadn’t faded.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said gently. “I heard. And I just… wanted to pay my respects.”

Leila smiled, tearful. “You knew the man he was.”

“I did,” Thomas said, voice steady. “But more than that, I knew the woman who stood by him. And I always admired her most.”

They didn’t say more.

Just stood in silence.

Later that night, Leila returned home, sat on the edge of her bed, and opened the drawer. She pulled out the yellowed letter and read it again. Then, for the first time in six years, she reached for a pen.

“Dear Thomas,

Thank you for waiting, even when I never asked you to.

I still wear my ring. Not out of mourning, but gratitude. Marcus gave me 32 years of love.

But now… I’m ready to live again.

If you still remember the tree where we kissed, meet me there.

Thursday, 4:00 p.m.”_

She folded the letter.

And this time, she sent it.