Around Christmas, he came over for dinner twice. Since he had moved to London, we had been seeing him even more than before, or maybe just more intensively. First, we tried to persuade ourselves that surely it wasn’t anything serious, just a case of being overworked, too much stress, etc. When he didn’t come to work Monday morning without even calling in sick, it should have been obvious that something was really wrong. But, hey, he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke.
It actually was a stroke. At age 34. Somehow, there had been a rupture in some artery. Somehow.
After twelve days, he showed first signs of improvement. He was able to wiggle one foot a little bit. This gave rise to hopes for a short while.
By then, however, communication by blinking already hadn’t been working all that well any more for a week.

Things always seem to end before they start.