He stopped outside a room, turning to face me, his demeanor professional yet distant.
“Before we go in, I need you to prepare yourself,” he said, his voice steady.
My mouth was dry, words caught in my throat as I nodded.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, shadows hugging the corners.
My husband lay there, pale and fragile, a stark contrast to the person I knew.
He looked up, eyes meeting mine, the usual warmth replaced by something unreadable.
It was as if a barrier had formed between us, one of silence and untold stories.
The physician cleared his throat, drawing my attention back.
“There’s more to discuss,” he began, the weight of his words settling heavily between us.
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