A homeless man held up a sign that read, “Marry me. I have only one month left to live” — I agreed out of pity, but the letter I received after his funeral made the blood drain from my face. I passed Larry every morning on my way to the office. He was a quiet, respectful homeless man who usually sat outside my subway stop. Over the past two years, we’d developed a simple routine. I’d bring him a black coffee, and we’d talk about the weather for a few minutes before I hurried off to work. But on a freezing Tuesday morning last month, he wasn’t asking anyone for spare change. Instead, he was holding a piece of cardboard that read: “Marry me. I have only one month left to live.” I stopped and crouched beside him, handing him his usual coffee. “Larry, what is this?” I asked, confused. He looked awful—paler than normal, his hands shaking as he took the cup. “The clinic gave me a month,” he said hoarsely, staring down at the pavement. “Liver failure.” “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, completely caught off guard. “But… marriage?” “I just don’t want to die as a John Doe, Sarah,” he said quietly, his eyes filling with tears. “I want to belong to someone on paper. I want someone to claim my ashes instead of letting the city put me in an unmarked grave.” I’ve always been more empathetic than was probably good for me. I was single, practical, and my heart broke for him.