The fluorescent lights in Room 304 buzzed softly overhead, harsh and relentless, as if they were quietly counting down the seconds of a life no one else seemed to be watching. On the small bedside table, a neat stack of discharge papers sat waiting, arranged with perfect indifference. Thomas stared at them until the words blurred together—not because his eyesight had weakened, but because something inside him had finally shattered.
He rubbed his thumb over the plastic hospital bracelet around his wrist, tracing the raised letters of his own name…
