I never imagined my world could crumble in a hospital hallway. The doctor’s words echoed like a cruel bell: “Stage four… it’s everywhere. Weeks, maybe less.”
I stumbled out of the room, gasping, desperate for air. The September breeze cut my face, but it didn’t touch the ache inside. I collapsed onto a bench, numb, broken.
Then she appeared.
At first, I thought she was just a nurse finishing her shift. Mid-forties, streaks of gray in her hair, eyes that had seen too much. She sat silently beside me. We shared a heavy, wordless silence.
Then, calm but urgent: “Put a hidden camera in his room.”
I stared. “Excuse me?”
“Your husband isn’t dying,” she said.
I laughed, bitter. “The doctor just said—”
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