PROLOGUE

The sun has finally come up and I'm sitting by the window that is foggy with the breath of a life gone by.

I'm truly a sight this morning, two shirts, heavy set of pants and a woolen scarf wrapped around my neck and tucked into a thick woolen sweater knitted by my daughter thirty something birthdays ago.

The thermostat in the room is set as high as it goes and a small heater sits directly behind me. It spews hot air like a fairy-tale dragon, but still my body shivers with a cold that will never go away, a cold that has been eighty years in the making.

My life is really not easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around with the gophers. I suppose it had many ups and downs. But don't be misled. I am nothing special; of that I'm sure.

I'm a common man with a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul and to me, this has always been enough.

The romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call it a tragedy. In my mind, it's a little bit of both, and no matter how you choose to view it in the end, it does not change the fact that it involves a big part of my life.

Time, unfortunatly, doesn't make it easy to stay on course. The path is straight as ever now that it is strewn with the rocks and gravel that accumulate over a lifetime. Until three years ago it would have been easy to ignore, but it's impossible now. There is a sickness rolling through my body; I'm neither strong nor healthy and my days are spent like an old baloon party: listless, spongy and growing softer over time.

I cough, and look down to check my watch. I realise it's time to go. I stand from my seat by the window and shuffle across the room, stopping at the desk to pick up the notebook I have read a hundred times. I do not glance through it. Instead, I slip it under my arm and continue to go to the place I must go.

I walk on tiled floors, white in color and speckled with gray. Like most of the people here, my hair can relate to that.

I hear the muffled sounds of crying in the distance and know exactly who is making those sounds. Then a nurse sees me and we smile at each other and exchange greetings. They are my friends and we talk often, but I am sure they wonder about me and the things that I go through every day.

A minute later, I reach the room. The door has been propped open for me, as it usually is. There are two others in the room, and they too smile at me as I enter.

"Good morning," they say with cheery voices, and I take a moment to ask about the kids and the school and the upcoming vacations. We talk above the crying for a minute or so. They do not seem to notice; they have become numb to it, but then again, so have I.

Afterward, I sit in the chair that has come to be shaped like me. They are finishing up now: her clothes are on, but she is still crying. It will become quieter after they leave, I know. The excitement of the morning always upsets her, and today is no exception.

Finally, the shade opens and the nurses walk out. Both of them touch me and smile as they walk by. I wonder what this means.

I sit for just a second and stare at her, but she doesn't return the look. I understand, she doesn't know who I am.

I am a stranger to her.

Then, turning away, I bow my head and pray silently for the strenght I know I will need. I have always been a firm believer in God and the power of prayer, though to be honest, my faith has made for a list of questions I definitely want answered after I'm gone.

Ready now. On go the glasses, out of my pocket comes a magnifier. I put it on the table for a moment while I opent the notebook. It takes two licks on my gnarled finger to get the well-worn cover open to the first page. Then I put the magnifier in place.

There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story when my mind churns and I wonder, will it happen today? I don't know, for I never know beforehand, and deep down it doesn't really matter.

It's the possibility that keeps me going, not the guarantee. And though you might call me a dreamer or a fool or any other thing, I believe that anything is possible.

I realise the odds and science are against me. But science is not the total answer; this I know, this I have learned in my lifetime. And that leaves me with the belief that miracles, no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can occur without regard to the natural order of things.

So once again, just as I do every day, I begin to read the notebook aloud, so that she can hear it, in the hope that the miracle that has come to dominate my life will once again prevail.

And maybe, just maybe, it will.

A/N: I suppose you all guessed which book this is based upon right from the summary right :P