The homeless man I had married used to sit outside my subway station every morning, quietly drinking his coffee black. After his funeral, I received a letter from him that began with an apology I couldn’t understand. What it revealed eventually sent me back to the courthouse, where an old record book raised a question I never expected to hear:

“Which Larry did you marry?”

The letter began with a sentence that made me stop breathing.

“Sarah, before I thank you, I need to apologize.”

I read those words again.

The letter had arrived six days after Larry’s funeral. It was inside a thick white envelope, and the handwriting was unmistakably his—the same uneven writing I had seen on the paperwork completed during his final days.

The postmark was dated one day before he died.

At first, I smiled when I saw it.

I assumed Larry had left me a final goodbye.

He had always been that kind of person. Even when I bought him a simple cup of coffee, he would thank me several times as though I had done something extraordinary.

But the next sentence changed everything.

“Nobody was going to bury me as a John Doe.”

I felt the color leave my face.

I slowly sat down.

“No,” I whispered.

I read the sentence again, hoping I had misunderstood it.

I hadn’t.

Only a few weeks earlier, Larry had been sitting outside my subway station with a piece of cardboard resting across his knees.

Written across it in large letters were five words:

MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.

To anyone passing by, it probably looked strange.

To me, it was Larry.

I had known him for almost two years.

Every weekday morning, I stopped at the small coffee kiosk beside the station and ordered two cups.

Mine came with cream.

Larry’s was always black.

He never asked me for money.

He never pressured me to stop.

Some mornings, we’d talk about the weather. Other days, Larry would complain about the pigeons gathering near the station or make sarcastic comments about my clothes.

Once, he looked at my office shoes and told me they appeared to have been designed by someone who strongly disliked feet.

I laughed so hard that morning that I nearly missed my train.

Usually, I only stayed with him for about five minutes before heading to work.

But that Tuesday morning was different.

The weather was bitterly cold, and Larry looked exhausted.

For the first time since I’d known him, he didn’t make a joke when I approached.

He simply looked up at me.

And then I noticed the sign resting across his knees.