The hospital room is dim, bathed in sterile blue light from the hallway. The walls are pale, casting soft shadows across the linoleum floor. The bed holds a frail figure, barely disturbing the sheets. Beside it, an empty chair faces the heart monitor. The cushion bears the imprint of someone recently there. A bouquet of wilted roses rests on the bedside table, petals curled inward. A single fallen petal lies near an untouched glass of water, condensation pooling beneath it. The heart monitor glows, its thin green line rising and falling in weakening intervals. The gaps stretch longer until the line evens out—unbroken, unchanging. Through the window, the city glows, its lights distant and scattered. Cars move soundlessly below, their headlights tracing fleeting paths. Beyond the glass, the world continues. Inside, nothing does.