Marisa and Antonio were a close-knit couple. A long and overall happy marriage, although with the regret of not having had children. Retirement and old age had increased the hours spent together. The affection was the same as always and they kept each other a lot of company. Every now and then they told each other that they were lucky because they were not alone and loneliness is so bad when you are weak and no longer young.

Antonio was a good and caring man, tender towards his partner, even when, with her advancing age, she began to feel the signs of illness. He assisted her faithfully in her infirmities. At their home, as long as it was possible. However, over time Marisa showed increasingly alarming signs of confusion: she was a prisoner of her nightmares and her fears, she almost didn't notice others. Who could her husband count on? He too had aged and lacked the necessary support. In the end, out of desperation, he had to accept the prospect of hospitalization.

Marisa had been hospitalized far from their home, outside the city, thirty kilometers away. Antonio, however, continued to visit her every day. He couldn't do without her, he felt alone and, above all, she was the only affection he had left. So every day he took the bus that went along the state road, among the hills covered with olive trees. He tolerated the curves and bumps, indifferent to such beauty, closed in his thoughts.

One day, right in front of the gate of the institute, his heart could no longer take it. He died of a heart attack right there, a few meters from his wife, who never knew or understood what had happened to him. He was now eighty-five years old.

Marisa continued to invoke his name. She sometimes felt betrayed; more often she imagined that something bad had happened and she despaired. No one wanted to waste time explaining to her what had happened. Her sobs mingled with the voices of many other patients. After a short time she too died. Alone.