Hart and Emma.

"Sometimes I appreciate the fragility of your existence." He wished he hadn't said the words the moment they crept out of his mouth. You could tell, for they had thin, white strings tied to the ends of them, knotted with regret, but they broke when he tried to pull them back in. And so he continued. "Being weak isn't always a bad thing Emma. It's usually the weakest people who have the strongest souls." He hesitated. More regret. "The surest hearts." 

"You think because I'm dying that I'm better, bigger?" Emma made a small fist, her heart cringed too. 

"No." Hart was quick to answer, with even more white strung words riddled with caution. "But I do think Emma, because you know how you're dying," he ran a hand over his blooming cheeks, "you're a little braver than the rest of us." She made a second fist. Clenching her tiny fingers hard. But her hard was no longer hard with a disease eating at her body. He looked away. "Not everyone gets to know how Emma, but in the end, we're all dying." 

Hart walked away.