The ward was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the life-support machine and the dim glow of the night lamp casting soft shadows across the room. It had been almost three months since Emily had slipped into a coma, and her room had become a second home to her husband, Michael. He visited every day, his presence unwavering, offering what little comfort he could to the woman he adored. To the nurses and doctors, he was the epitome of devotion, a steadfast partner holding onto hope against all odds.
But today was different. The doctors had finally summoned the courage to have the conversation that Michael had been dreading. They sat him down, their faces solemn, and explained that Emily’s chances of recovery were nonexistent. Her body was gradually failing, and they recommended it was time to let her go. The words hit Michael like a punch to the gut, and he crumbled under the weight of their finality.
Tears streamed down his face, and his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. To everyone watching, it seemed as if his very soul was being torn apart. He pleaded with the doctors, his voice barely above a whisper, begging for just a little more time to say goodbye, to express all the things that had gone unsaid.
