My husband left in the early morning, and I think I should also say goodbye to this world now

At one in the morning, my husband breathed his last. His eyes closed forever, bidding a final farewell to me and this world.

I shed no tears, for I knew this day was inevitable; my tears had long since dried up, exhausted over the years.

Five years ago, our only daughter perished in a tragic car accident. Receiving the call, my husband and I rushed to the hospital in a frenzy, only to find a figure, unrecognizable and curled under a white sheet. Had it not been for her familiar clothes, I would have refused to believe that this was the child who had been by my side for over two decades.

In that moment, our world collapsed.

Our daughter was everything to our family, our sole kin in this city. Her departure left us in an endless agony, abandoned in pain day after day. How could she leave us so heartlessly?

Three years after her passing, my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

The doctor suggested that his illness was largely due to excessive grief. Emotions profoundly impact one's health, and his was a clear case of a heartache turning into physical ailment.

From her childhood, our daughter was the apple of my husband's eye. He cherished her deeply, afraid to let her out of his sight, accompanying her to and from school until high school, and insisting she attend a local university. He worried over every headache or fever she had, sometimes feeding her by hand even when she was a grown woman. When I chided him, he would simply say, "She's my only daughter. If I don't cherish her, who will?"

Her untimely accident took a heavy toll on him. He aged decades in grief, initially granted leave from his job, but as time passed, the understanding faded. Realizing his state, he resigned, confining himself to our daughter's room, holding onto her belongings, inconsolable. I tried to comfort him, but it often ended in both of us weeping together.

After his diagnosis, he seemed almost relieved, as if unburdened. He refused surgery or extensive treatment, content with just enough medication to ease the pain, eager to reunite with our daughter.

I begged him, through tears, to seek treatment, asking desperately what I would do without him. He apologized, concerned about leaving me financially burdened if he spent all our savings on treatment.

I told him that without them, I had no desire to continue living.

He wouldn't hear of such talk.

We endured almost two more years. For him, it was a struggle to stay with me; for me, each day was a torment, fearing he would slip away when I wasn't looking.

Sensing his time was short, he spent his last days ensuring I was always by his side, entrusting me with every detail of his life, from mundane tasks to our finances, insisting I write everything down.

As he departed, he held my hand tightly, his face etched with reluctance and concern.

His eyes closed for the last time. I shed no tears, knowing this day would eventually come, my tears having long been spent.

I lay beside him, gently caressing his face, whispering about the happy times when we were a family of three. He could no longer hear me, but I continued until dawn broke, ensuring he wasn't afraid in his final moments.

After his funeral, I plan to donate our house and savings to an orphanage and spend my remaining days in quiet solitude. Truly, I have lived in this city, but there is nothing left here to hold me.