But somewhere across town, a man was dying in an empty room.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
The drive to the hospital felt heavier than any drive I had taken in years. My phone buzzed twice—once from a group chat filled with excited parents, once from my daughter: “Are you on your way?”
I couldn’t answer.
When I walked into his room, the air felt still, like time had already begun to slow down. Mr. Halvorsen lay in the bed, eyes half-open, breaths shallow and uneven. The machines around him hummed quietly, doing their best to hold onto something that was already slipping away.
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