I launched your old dinghy, the one you used back when there were still weekends. When fishing was a hobby and laughter filled our lungs. Now, penguins waddle on coastal streets and dolphins dance in deserted Venice canals. 

 

They said a lab still floated offshore. My final hope. 

 

Sea spray salted my mouth, the lips that once kissed you goodbye. That final warmth, when I already knew the sickness would take you too. 

 

* * *

 

In my bunker, I mixed chemicals in the dark while the virus chewed through flesh. Cultures mutated, failed, and died. I kept going because you believed in me.  

 

Until one lived. 

 

* * *

 

The motor roared to life. I cut through black waves. Ahead, a shadow broke the fog and steel rose from the ocean.  

 

 I drifted closer to the ship, gripping the bottle in your old coat. If I breathed deep enough, I could still catch the scent of your Old Spice. 

 

They met me at the side in hazmat suits, rifles pointed low.  

 

A red beam scanned my brow.  

 

NO VIRUS DETECTED. 

 

“She’s clean!” someone said. 

 

I almost believed them. Like I did when you said you’d be back soon. Said that love could outlast hunger. But you stayed away to spare the rationed food. 

 

“Do you have the cure?” 

 

I nodded. “Yes... but there are side effects.”  

 

They leaned in, hungry for hope. Their flashlights blinded me as they searched for clarity. 

 

I tugged my collar higher, hiding the scales slithering down my neck. 

 

* * *

 

The cure doesn’t consume like the virus did. Our skin transforms. Like I had to shed you, my love. Bury the pain and let this new body forget what the old one could never stop loving. 

 

They’ll understand soon, when they morph too.