The Last Leaf falls: A Tale of Courage and Hope
In the heart of Greenwich Village, New York was a narrow street called Claremont Lane that was home to artists, writers, and poets. Among them were Johnsy and Sue, two young strivers who had met by chance at a cafe. Both had a dream: to make it as talented painters. Thus, they combined their resources and moved into a modest apartment together.
One late November, Johnsy fell gravely ill with pneumonia. The disease took a toll on her, both physically and mentally, leaving her bedbound and dispirited. The bare ivy vine, visible through their window, became her obsession as she linked her fate to the leaves on it.
Sue was devastated seeing her roommate in such despair. Johnsy had stopped fighting... stopped hoping for better. She had become fixated on the idea that when the last leaf on the vine fell, she would die too. Desperate to lift Johnsy's spirits, Sue, to no avail, entreated doctors and nurses for help.
Meanwhile, residing one floor below was old Mr. Behrman, an artist who had never tasted the fruits of recognition. He was a gruff, burly man known for his characteristic grumble and never-finished masterpiece. You could rarely see him without a paintbrush or a drink in his hand. Despite his gruff exterior, he had a soft spot for Johnsy and Sue.
One day, Sue shared her woes with Mr. Behrman. He listened and sniffed, dismissing the ludicrous notion of the girl upstairs tying her life to the fall of the leaves.
As an icy storm swept through Greenwich Village, Sue anxiously watched as the leaves on the ivy vine started dwindling. By midnight, there was only one single leaf left, stubborn and persistent, despite the harsh wind. Fearing for Johnsy's life, Sue tried her best to keep her distracted, not letting her gaze turn towards that window.
The next morning, Sue woke up to the shocking sight. The last leaf on the vine hadn't fallen. It was still there, robust and green. Johnsy, too, saw it and something miraculous happened. The mere act of the leaf's survival filled her with a newfound hope for life. Mirroring the leaf's obstinacy, she decided she wouldn't let herself perish.
As days rolled on, Johnsy's health improved. The doctors declared her out of danger, baffled by the extraordinary turn her condition had taken. Yet happiness was short-lived as a sudden sadness swept over Claremont Lane.
Old Mr. Behrman was found dead in his room, succumbed to pneumonia. An empty lantern, a chilled palette, and a paintbrush soaked in green lay by his side. Across his window, was an oversized easel with the painting of a single ivy leaf.
The last leaf had not survived the storm after all. It was Mr Behrman's masterpiece, the one he painted that stormy night to give Johnsy the hope she needed to survive. Her survival had been his grand success. An artist unknown to the world had carried out his great deed silently: giving the gift of hope through his art, and in return, surrendering his own life.