The choice should not be his to make. 

The thought does not survive the next passing of plates. Of course it has to be him. There is no one else. He is her. She is him. They are not, but they are, and there may never be another Chef to meet the Housekeeper. Forgive him for shrinking, ma’am. There is too much at stake to not make a choice. But it may be a mistake. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He knows it will hurt. He wishes he was clever enough to find a better way. But all he can think is this: The last one left should not be cursed for surviving. 

Please. Don’t be angry. 

The next time the Housekeeper’s cycle takes her across the gaping emptiness, it is not her hands that perform the flourishes. Dolce holds the precious motion, in his hands, in his heart, and asks a difficult question of a broken soul. 

“Could you tell me about the one who worked their knives like this?”

And for the next. And the next. And the next after that. Remember, think, speak, and do not stop the work, and I will hold the monuments you no longer can. Will you tell whose names are on them? Will you let me remember them with you? May I be the first you tell?

Housekeeper. Dear Housekeeper. The universe holds too much for your love to stay frozen. 

Go, and be well.

[Talking Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 2 + 0 = 8]