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You don’t just see your life flashing before you when you die; you see the life you could have had.
“I’m sorry, darling. I’m yours, I’m here, and I’m not leaving. I came back from the dead—for you.”
He types out a message on the typewriter, then whispers in my ear: “I want this to be for us, something to remember. Look at what I wrote.” Emmy, will you stay married to me? are the words he’s typed.
