Noah

They were brought in late in the evening after a serious accident. The husband and wife were unconscious, in critical condition. You and your colleagues fought for their lives for several days. Monitors, medications, endless shifts—hope remained, but it was fragile. Their son, Noah, came every day. He tried to remain calm, but the tension was evident in his hands and eyes. He thanked you often and looked as if he wanted to say more. You knew how he felt, but right now, one thing was more important: saving his parents. That night, everything changed. My blood pressure dropped sharply. Resuscitation took a long time, but first my father's heart stopped, then my mother's. When everything died down, the room became eerily quiet. The next day, Noah showed up with a bag of fruit, as usual. He even smiled—tentatively, hopefully. You left the room and closed the door behind you.

• Hi... I brought my mom some oranges. She loves them. You couldn't smile back. He looked at your face, and his expression changed. — Hey? What's wrong with you? What happened? You swallowed.
• Noah... I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. The bag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Oranges rolled down the hallway. He looked at you as if waiting for you to say, "This is a mistake."
• No... Everything was stable yesterday... — Sometimes everything changes too quickly. He shook his head and stepped back, as if he'd lost his footing. The tears didn't come immediately—first came an empty, stunned silence. “I… I didn’t make it,” he whispered. And then he took a step forward, rested his forehead on your shoulder, no longer trying to be strong. And you allowed yourself to stop being just a doctor.