The rain pattered against the window like a slow, steady heartbeat. The kind Eliot had once called comforting.
Now, it sounded like counting.
Counting seconds.
Counting endings.
He sat alone in the on-call room, the light of his laptop casting soft shadows over the old, cracked notebook in his lap. The spine was worn, the pages faded—but the handwriting was familiar.
Mara's.
The last entry was short. Dated three days before she died.
> "I'm tired, Eli. I know you don't want to hear that. You keep telling me to fight, to hold on. But it's not the pain anymore—it's the silence. No one listens. Not really. I just want someone to hear me. Please don't make me suffer to make you feel better."
He closed the book and pressed it to his chest.
Was this what he was doing? Ending pain—or rewriting history?
A knock broke the silence.
Nurse Rami peeked in. "Dr. Wren? Room 214. Family's asking for you."
He nodded, throat dry. "I'll be right there."
---
Room 214. Mr. Bernard Walker. 73. Terminal cancer. Lungs failing. Morphine barely keeping the edge off. The man wheezed through every breath, his ribs moving like cracked shutters in a storm.
His daughter stood beside him, clutching his hand.
"Doctor," she whispered as Eliot entered. "He's ready. I think… I know he's ready."
Eliot studied the man's face. Eyes flickering. Skin waxy.
"Has he said anything?" Eliot asked.
She nodded. "He said he wants to sleep. For good. He looked at me and said, 'Let me go, kiddo.'"
Eliot's pulse quickened.
This was it. Another mercy.
He reached for his coat pocket. The syringe waited quietly there.
But then—
Her mother stepped in.
"No," the older woman said. Her voice sharp. Panicked. "No, he didn't mean that. He's confused. He's scared. Please, doctor, don't… don't give up on him."
"He's suffering," Eliot said gently. "You can see that."
"I don't care," she said, trembling. "He's still here. He still smiles when he sees us. He still squeezes my hand. I know him. He's not ready."
Eliot stood between them.
One daughter pleading for release.
One wife begging for one more breath.
And for the first time in years, he couldn't move.
His hand dropped from his coat. He took a step back.
"You should… spend time with him," he said, voice hoarse. "Talk. Hold him."
He left the room quickly.
---
Back in the corridor, Eliot pressed his back to the wall. His heart was pounding. His hand still felt the weight of the syringe that he never used.
Cara stood at the end of the hallway, watching him.
She didn't say anything. Just nodded—once.
A quiet understanding passed between them.
He had chosen not to play God tonight.
But that didn't make him innocent.
And it didn't undo what came before.
---
End of Chapter 11.
---