The door slammed shut.

I lay on the floor, blood trickling from the corner of my mouth.

In the corner of the room, my old phone was recording.

I dragged my broken body over and stopped the recording.

Then, I opened my email and attached the file.

The recipients were my father, Marco; my mother, Jane; my fiancé, Draven; and his father, the patriarch, Don Frost.

The clock struck midnight. One day left.

I hit "Schedule Send."

With what little strength I had left, I forced myself onward, relying on fragmented memories to find the shop of my grandfather's old friend, the tailor Antonio.

It was tucked away on one of the oldest streets in Little Italy.

Antonio's shop was small, with a few handmade suits hanging in the window.

I pushed the door open, and a bell chimed softly.

It had been a long time. Seeing the state I was in, more a ghost than a person, it took him a moment to recognize me.

I licked my chapped lips and got straight to the point.

"Antonio, I have end-stage renal disease."

"I don't think I'll make it through tomorrow."

"I have one last thing to ask of you," I said, summoning my final reserves of strength. "Can I spend my last moments here?"

"I don't want to die in that cold motel room."

"I've already contacted the crematorium. When I'm gone, just call them for the simplest cremation."

The old man's eyes reddened, his voice trembling. "My dear, foolish child, don't say such things."

"Your grandfather saved my life. That's a debt I can never forget."

He carefully helped me to a small room behind the shop.

"It's not much, but it's warm."

Antonio laid a clean sheet on the bed and lit the fireplace.

The orange flames danced, chasing the chill from the room.

He even went out to buy fresh ingredients and made me a warm vegetable soup.

"This is the old Sicilian recipe. Your grandfather's favorite."

A large bowl of hot soup settled in my stomach, and even the pain in my body seemed to lessen.

The aroma reminded me of my grandfather's embrace when I was a child.

"Slowly, child, drink slowly."

He pulled a white dress from a wardrobe. "This was my granddaughter's favorite."

"But she never got to wear it much."

"You are both so beautiful, so kind."

Antonio sat by my bed, his eyes glistening as he looked at me.

"Eleanor, let me take you to the hospital. I still have some old connections…"

I shook my head weakly, already changing into the dress. "Tell me about her."

"She was a girl who loved to smile."

"She would leave food for the stray cats on the corner and read the newspaper to the old grandmother next door."

"I remember on her tenth birthday, I made her a dress for the first time. It was red."

"She twirled in front of the mirror, saying she was the happiest princess in the world."

I closed my eyes, picturing the girl I had never met.

"Did she have a lot of friends?"

"Of course," Antonio smiled. "Everyone who knew her loved her."

"So many people came to her birthday parties every year, you could hear the laughter all the way down the block."

Listening to him, I felt a warmth I had never experienced, as if I were living those moments myself.

So this is what it felt like to be truly loved.

My consciousness began to fade, but I felt no fear.

Instead, a sense of peace I had never known washed over me.

"Grandpa Antonio," I whispered. "Thank you for showing me that this kind of happiness exists in the world."

The old man held my hand, his voice choked with emotion. "Eleanor, I should be thanking you. You've let me feel the happiness my granddaughter brought me one more time."

"Remember, child, you are loved too."

But I could no longer make a sound.

My breaths grew shallower.

The last time I opened my eyes, I saw Antonio tucking the blankets around me.

Just like my grandfather used to.

In the final moments of my life, what I felt was a long-lost, simple happiness.

I closed my eyes peacefully.

The next morning, the chime of an email notification echoed through Marco Rocci's study.