(The Last Leaf of the Vineyard) is a famous and very influential short story by the American writer (O. Henry), and it tells the story of a terminally ill artist who linked her death to the fall of the last leaf of the vine from the branch of the tree outside the window. The story is that the leaf never fell... Later, she recovered. So she knew that an unknown artist who loved her had drawn a fake paper to make her believe that the paper existed and that there was rest in her life. What I am talking about today is less lofty and sophisticated, but just as painful. Since my childhood, my father would buy fruit or someone would give us a box of chocolate, and we would do the necessary and prepare all the fruit or chocolate. Only one last piece of chocolate or one apple remains. The important thing is that something remains that cannot be distributed to us. That last thing sits in the fridge waiting for divisible mates to appear. One miserable morning, he disappears from our world forever. Where did he go? no one knows. I grew up and became a father, but the eternal question still puzzles me: Where does the last thing go? Someone takes it, but who? Certainly not me. Why shouldn't I be that lucky?