We read to each other, taking turns with the books he loved.

We watched the sun set from his balcony every single evening, without fail, the light going gold and then violet over the city, and he would grow quiet in a way I did not then understand, watching the daughter he could not name sit beside him in the fading light.

We played chess, of course, right up until the end; he beat me soundly just three nights before he died, his mind sharp as a blade even as his body failed.

And then, last week, Harrison passed away, peacefully, in his own bed, in his own time, holding my hand.