Cyril had lost count of his hospital visits, each one dragging him deeper into a cycle of exhaustion and simmering frustration.
He always took the stairs—never the elevator—not out of health or habit, but to dodge awkward small talk, pitying glances, and the unspoken pressure to feign concern.
Today, he carried a small bouquet of white roses. Larissa, his wife, had lain unconscious for weeks, oblivious to the world around her.
Yet the flowers weren’t for her—they were for the nurses, the doctors, her family. A fragile façade of care, carefully maintained.