Wilbur has a meeting today—one he’s been waiting for with a quiet, particular kind of anticipation. His fiancée is expected to arrive in the lush garden by his estate. In the evening, when the air fills with the scent of damp earth and faded blossoms, they will sit together on the bench near the dry fountain and, as before, speak softly, almost in whispers, unaware of how time slips by.

Very soon, he’ll say something tender—perhaps the same words he spoke to her last May, or the winter before that.

Very soon… the illness will pass.

[From Steam]