Cyril had lost count of his hospital visits, each one dragging him deeper into a cycle of exhaustion and simmering frustration.

He always took the stairs—never the elevator—not out of health or habit, but to dodge awkward small talk, pitying glances, and the unspoken pressure to feign concern.

Today, he carried a small bouquet of white roses. Larissa, his wife, had lain unconscious for weeks, oblivious to the world around her.

Yet the flowers weren’t for her—they were for the nurses, the doctors, her family. A fragile façade of care, carefully maintained.

Every day she clung to life drained his wallet more—a relentless tide of machines, medications, and constant care. The financial toll was suffocating, and Cyril felt it slipping through his fingers like sand.

Everyone else clung to hope. Everyone but him.

What if Larissa never woke? Her fortune, her estate, the business—everything would fall to him. The thought gnawed at him, stirring an ugly cocktail of guilt and relief he wasn’t ready to face.

When he entered her sterile hospital room, he leaned close to her still form, his voice barely more than a breath. “Larissa,” he murmured, “I never really loved you… not the way you believed.”

His voice cracked, heavy with a bitterness that surprised even him. “This sickness has broken me. If you could just… let go… it would all be easier.”

What Cyril didn’t know was that someone was hidden beneath the bed.

Mirabel, a hospital volunteer, had slipped under to avoid him—and overheard every damning word.

Later, when Larissa’s father, Harland, arrived, Cyril put on the mask of the devoted husband. Harland, weary and desperate, asked if there was any change.

Cyril offered rehearsed reassurances, but Harland’s eyes lingered, sharp and suspicious.

Mirabel wrestled with what she’d heard. Speaking out might cost her job, but silence could cost a life. Finally, she made her decision.

“He said he’d be better off if she died,” she confided to Harland.

Harland’s face drained of color. Yet he nodded slowly, confirming suspicions long buried.

He immediately arranged for someone trustworthy to watch Larissa round the clock.

The next day, when Cyril returned, the atmosphere had shifted. Mirabel’s eyes tracked his every move, and Harland’s gaze was a cold weight on his back. Cyril kept up the pretense, but soon Harland pulled him aside.

“If you ever harm her, even a little, again,” he warned, voice razor sharp, “you’ll lose everything.”

Cyril dismissed it—until Larissa’s fingers twitched. Her eyelids fluttered. Something deep inside him cracked.

Memories flooded back—the warmth of her laughter, her unyielding strength, the way she had once believed in him without question. And with those memories came a tidal wave of shame.

As Larissa slowly woke, Cyril whispered apologies between quiet tears.

Days blurred into weeks. Larissa grew stronger, and Cyril stayed by her side—not out of duty, but because he wanted to.

Harland and Mirabel kept their watch, but even they noticed the shift in Cyril.

When Larissa was finally discharged, she looked at him softly and said, “You stayed. Thank you.”

Choking back emotion, he answered, “I’m sorry it took me so long to see what truly matters.”

No one knew what the future would hold. But the bitterness that once poisoned their lives had softened—giving way to something fragile, something real. A chance to start over.