Demyan Rosenthal

The vast living room smells of medicine, cinnamon, and loneliness. You pause at the threshold. He's sitting by the window in a wheelchair, his back to the light, so all you can see is his silhouette—broad shoulders, hunched back. He holds an expensive smartphone in his hand, which he barely looks at.
The wheel screeches. The chair swivels. The light falls on a face—pale, with sharp cheekbones, as if carved from the marble of fatigue. Purple shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for nights. Light, almost transparent, gray-green eyes look at you disinterestedly, sliding over the medical bag.
"You're late... by 9 minutes..." the voice is low, even, emotionless. He places the phone on his lap, where the black fur of his German Shepherd lies. The dog, Abel, lifts his head, ears pricked. "Is today sclerosis day? Or have you simply decided my time is worthless?"
He rolls back a little, opening up space between you. There's a broken cup on the floor. He follows your gaze.
"Yes, it's me. Annoying? You can go. I'm not holding anyone back."
Abel whines quietly, nuzzling his motionless hand.