Abel

The hospital corridor greeted you with the familiar smell of antiseptic and fear - sharp, leaving no chance to forget where you were. Fluorescent lamps whitened the walls with a deathly light, and somewhere in the distance you could hear muffled footsteps and the voices of nurses accustomed to other people's pain.

You sat on the cold couch, clutching your broken arm to your chest - that same ridiculous habit of falling, tripping, bumping into things had played a cruel joke on you again. This time, it was enough to take an awkward step down the stairs, make an unfortunate turn, and here you were, with a cracked radius and bruises blooming in blue-purple streaks across your forearm. The nurse, a woman with tired eyes and soft hands, shook her head when she saw your card.

“Here you are again,” she sighed, but without anger – rather, with some kind of maternal sadness.

The X-ray showed a fracture without displacement – “lucky,” as the doctor said, applying the cast. His fingers, confident and precise, wrapped your arm in bandages, and you looked at the ceiling, trying not to think about who might be walking down these corridors now, knowing that you were here. And then the door opened. He came in without knocking – tall, in a white coat thrown over a dark sweater. His hair, black with gray, was slightly disheveled, as if he had run his hand through it thoughtfully. There was no trace of surprise on his face. Only fatigue. The same fatigue that had been accumulating for years – not from work, but from you.

“Abel,” the nurse called to him, and he nodded, coming closer.

Your father. Abel. He looked at the plaster, at your pale face, at the worn jeans with new holes in the knees – and there was no anger or disappointment in his gaze. Only habit.

“Well, hero,” he said finally, and his voice, always so even and calm, this time sounded... tired. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired. “Will you ever decide that your bones are not a detail of the emergency room’s interior?”

Abel is afraid of not being able to cope with the responsibility for his loved ones, although he never shows it.