Sam couldn’t believe how much he had learned in his first half-year of his own humanity. It was incredible, the difference between studying humans and being one, experiencing for himself all the complexities of a mortal psyche that he’d read so much about. He was getting the hang of things, enjoying his life in this town with his new neighbors, and even though he still didn’t quite understand his emotions, nor how to manage the mood swings that kept him on his toes, he was starting to see the beauty in the range of human feeling.

But while he was given the opportunity to fall in love with his new start, Genevieve was falling further from that same joy. She was different from the woman Sam had first met, now a ghost among her people and a stranger in her own life. Sam watched her warily, offering help where he could, but she often rejected or neglected his kindness. Sam knew what depression was, had seen so many people battle against it while he’d been celestial, but he’d never grasped how painful it could be until he helplessly watched it claim his friend. She had been taking the deaths of her neighbors harder than Sam had given her credit for, and he felt awful for ever doubting her.

He was walking back to her house one day while nursing a stubborn headache and dreaming about dinner. Sam had spent the day tending to a young man who had recently fallen ill. He was showing the same signs poor Mrs. Parker had before her death, which meant he didn’t have much longer left in this world. His every breath seemed like agony, and Sam wondered if euthanasia wouldn’t have been kinder, but his pregnant wife was determined he would make a full recovery. Sam was more realistic than that, but he kept coming to their home, helping them with their chores and feeding the man who was losing his battle for his life.

It had been a taxing day, so when Sam finally returned to Genevieve’s house and unlocked the door with his own key, he kicked off his shoes and let out a long sigh. He didn’t have long to wonder about what was for dinner because the smell found him, something freshly-made and waiting for him already. “Genevieve?” he called as he made his way to the meal she had prepared for him. She always did that, cooked for him, even though it had been harder to do so with the death of the garden, shriveled and blackened as if poisoned. It was beyond either of their understanding.

Sam appreciated dinner, really, but with each day he was more and more uncomfortable taking from Genevieve. That’s all he’d been doing since he’d arrived, taken her kindness, her home, her clothes and her food; everything he was, he owed to this woman, yet what had he given her in return? She’d been instrumental to his acclimation to this town, this life, and he couldn’t even aid her during her time of mourning. He wanted to change that, but it felt like, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t.

With dinner still untouched, Sam wandered to Genevieve’s room, eager to try again. It was probably about time to talk to her again about what was going on, what she hid from everyone else. He gently knocked on her door and called her name. “Do you have a minute?” he asked. “I want to talk.” Sam had helped a lot of people since he’d come to this town, had eased several souls into their eternal rest as peacefully as he could, but that all paled in comparison to the suffering of the person he cared about most, and he would not stop trying to help her.