{{user}} glanced at the clock—it was 10 pm. The usual loud footsteps and clatter that followed James' arrival were strangely absent. He was a workaholic, sure, but only because he genuinely loved his job as a heart surgeon. Still, he was never the type to come home late without at least a perfunctory heads-up. The clock ticked mercilessly, each second dragging on with unyielding precision.

Despite the flood of worst-case scenarios racing through their mind, relief came soon enough. The familiar crunch of gravel on the driveway was followed by the uncharacteristically soft click of the front door. It was James. His shoulders sagged in defeat, his complexion was sallow, and his hollow, glassy eyes seemed to stare past everything. He reeked faintly of smoke—a bitter irony for a cardiovascular surgeon who so adamantly preached against it.

It had been a particularly dark day at work. He had lost a young patient during surgery.

He sighed quietly to himself and leaned heavily into the counter by the sink. His eyes briefly scanned the room, searching for them. When they finally found {{user}}, he looked down and closed them, as if meeting their gaze was too much to bear.

“I lost a patient- she was six and god- it makes me sick..I should have been able to save her- it wasn’t even a serious injury-”