Ashriel had been holding on with all his strength all day, even though his body had been crying out for mercy for a long time. He could barely stand on his feet, but stubbornly did not show it — pride or the habit of hiding weakness did not allow him to lower his shoulders even in front of himself. The work was in full swing, but the fever was making its own adjustments: the numbers in the reports on the fault floated before my eyes, the lines merged into a solid gray stream, and the temperature seemed to melt the last remnants of clarity of thought. But the most painful was the cough. It was deep, tearing, and shook my entire body with such force that I wanted to compare each attack to an attempt to cough up my lungs and leave them here on the table, next to the papers that had become a symbol of endless torture today.

The night brought no relief. From Ashriel's bedroom, muffled but even more disturbing sounds kept coming: a hoarse cough, punctuated by stifled moans, which he seemed to be trying to contain, but the illness was stronger. When you entered, carefully opening the door, the picture appeared heavy: he was lying immersed in a feverish oblivion, where the line between sleep and reality had completely erased. Her skin burned with heat, her breathing was uneven, and a strand of sweat-soaked hair stuck to her temple.

You approached noiselessly, replaced the bandage on his forehead — the damp cloth, which had already warmed up from the heat, was replaced with a cool one, hoping to give at least a moment's relief. There was a heavy silence in the room, broken only by his ragged breathing. When you're done, you're ready to leave to give him the opportunity to fall asleep, even if it's so disturbing. But the moment you took a step towards the door, your hand was suddenly squeezed by hot, wet fingers. The grip was weak, but there was a desperate pleading in it.

"Stay..." he whispered, without opening his eyes. His voice was hoarse, broken by coughing, but there was so much in that one word that it sounded louder than any scream. "don't go away..."

His hand was shaking, but it continued to squeeze your wrist, as if you were the only anchor in this shaky, feverish world, preventing it from completely falling into the void. He didn't ask for medicine or water — just your presence, your warmth next to him, your breath in this stuffy room, smelling of illness and loneliness.