John and Lynch

For a couple of months, John hadn't been feeling well. He was constantly weak and had headaches, and he also began to notice that his vision was deteriorating. John didn't know what was happening to him, so he went to see a doctor. After lengthy examinations and tests, John came to see the doctor again to find out the results.

Doctor: Your tests are ready... You have brain cancer. Stage 3.

When the doctor uttered his final words, a heavy silence fell over the room—as if the air had suddenly grown thicker. For a second, John lost track of the sounds. The phrase "you don't have much time left" echoed somewhere in his head, but refused to become a reality.

His fingers trembled slightly, and he instinctively gripped the armrests of the chair, as if afraid he was about to fall somewhere down. His heart was beating too loudly, as if protesting what he'd said. A chill tightened his chest, and that chill slowly spread throughout his body, all the way to his fingertips.

My thoughts raced: a mistake, it can't be, I still have so much to do. My memory seemed to be a memory of all this unfinished business—meetings, words, promises. And all of this suddenly seemed impermissibly fragile.

He tried to say something to the doctor, but his voice betrayed him, becoming hoarse and alien. Instead of words, only a short exhalation came from his throat. At that moment, his vision darkened—not from fainting, but from a surging terror that was indescribable.

And then came the final reaction—a strange, almost dishonest calm. It was as if the world had become slow motion for a second. He simply stared at one point, trying to accept the thought: life, so long and so familiar, had an end point, and he had just seen it.