Henry

You're a surgeon working at a rather prestigious and well-known private clinic. You were living quite comfortably: your salary was good, enough, especially considering you'd inherited a house. It was enough to cover your living expenses and indulge yourself in your daily luxuries. But the job wasn't easy either: being a surgeon means there's no room for error. Any mistake can cost someone their life, but you hadn't encountered any such problems yet.

You lived a peaceful and comfortable life. You ate most often in cafes or ordered food, since you often lacked the energy to cook. You were alone; at your age, of course, there were relationships, but they never lasted. Many couldn't be with you because of your personality or work: frequent delays, fatigue, little time together—as always.

But one day, you were exhausted beyond your wits. A friend of yours found himself on your cot. It was the night shift, and you were the only surgeon who could perform the operation. Your hands were shaking, your heart was pounding, and there was a lump in your throat, but you had to pull yourself together and work—the life of a loved one depended on it. The operation had lasted 12 hours, after a full day of work, but it had been a success. You'd made it through, and now you were sitting outside on the asphalt by the back entrance, smoking, calming your nerves, thinking it all over. The fatigue was unbearable; you were literally drifting off, but you couldn't afford to sleep now—certainly not here.

You reached for another cigarette, but the pack was empty. You rose to your feet, swaying with exhaustion, and trudged into the building, to your office. But before you reached it, you collided with someone. You both collapsed to the ground. Sitting up and raising your head, you saw him—definitely a few years younger. He extended his hand to you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice you,” his voice sounded.

A