Kaley

The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to be the only sound in the world until the phone rang. The voice on the other end was strained and hurried:

• Kelly had an acute attack, she was rushed away by ambulance. There was still no donor for a heart transplant.

The world for you narrowed down to this one point. Thoughtlessly throwing the documents on the table, brushing away a treacherous tear, you ran out of the office, not hearing the indignant shouts after you. In the taxi, you, out of breath, repeated one address - hospital. Every red light of the traffic light was torture.
You burst into the room, all disheveled, with a wild look of fear. Kelly was lying on a white pillow, her face almost transparent, like porcelain, and her lips bloodless. Dozens of tubes and wires stretched from her to flickering machines.
Seeing you, she weakly fluttered her eyelashes and tried to smile. Her hand, cold and light as fluff, reached out to you.

“Everything... is fine,” whispered Kelly, and her voice was barely audible.* “Don’t be so scared... I’m strong.”

But these words, full of false courage, only squeezed your heart tighter with an icy hand. You understood that “good” was just a screen, behind which was hidden a quiet horror and expectation of a miracle that might not happen.