In the pale, sterile quiet of an old hospital room, a lone boy lay motionless on a sunken bed. Medical devices surrounded him like silent sentries — their flickering screens and methodical beeping the only signs that time hadn't stopped entirely. The scent of antiseptic lingered, faint and cold. His limbs were limp, body skeletal, skin stretched thin over bones that jutted like brittle scaffolding. An IV line fed clear fluid into his arm in slow, patient drips.
A narrow window filtered in a feeble shaft of light. The sky outside was heavy with clouds, grey and brooding. The sunlight that managed to slip through cast a ghostly pallor across his face, accentuating the hollows beneath his eyes. Below was an all-but-abandoned car park — cracked concrete and rusted rails. Atlas knew every mark, every stain, and every blemish. He'd memorised the view over the years, until it felt more familiar than his own reflection.
A shallow sigh escaped his cracked lips. With effort, he turned his head toward the window, watching as the clouds churned in silence. The world went on beyond the glass, indifferent and unreachable.
The door creaked open.
"Atlas! I have bad news."
The boy turned his head, slower this time. A voice he recognised — breathless, young, weighed down with urgency. Dr. Zane stepped into the room, his coat unbuttoned and creased, eyes shadowed from fatigue. His short black hair was slightly dishevelled, his grip on the clipboard tense.
Still, Atlas smiled.
"How was your shift today, Dr. Zane?"
His voice was raw, like words dragged over gravel. But it held something sincere. Zane blinked, momentarily thrown by the question.
"It was good. Quiet, actually," he answered softly.
"That's good to hear." Atlas gave a slight nod, then shifted his gaze to the clipboard in the doctor's hands. "So... what's the news?"
Zane hesitated. His throat tightened.
"The board decided… there's nothing more we can do."
Atlas stared at him, silent.
"They want me to… turn off the support systems. At midnight."
The boy's eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, all that could be heard were the machines: beep… beep… beep…
Expected, perhaps. But hearing it spoken aloud tore a seam somewhere deep inside. Not fear. Not quite. But something darker, more profound — the grief of knowing his thread was finally running out.
"I see," he whispered, as if acknowledging a passing shadow.
Zane looked away, guilt rising in his chest like floodwater. "I'm so sorry, Atlas… I wish—God, I wish I could do more."
The boy turned his head and studied the man — his doctor, his guardian, his only family.
"You did everything," Atlas said. "Fifteen years longer than I was meant to have. That was all you."
His voice cracked, but not from weakness — from truth.
Zane blinked rapidly. "I still feel like I failed."
Atlas shook his head, slow and deliberate. "You gave me a life. Not the one I wanted… but a real one. Laughter. Stories. Someone who stayed."
A pause, then a soft chuckle.
"And snacks. You never forgot the snacks."
Zane grinned despite himself, brushing a tear from his cheek.
"Then," he said, "let's enjoy the time we have left."
They passed the evening the way they had passed so many others — playing games and talking nonsense between mouthfuls of sweets. Atlas was ruthless. Zane, outmatched. The boy bragged shamelessly with every victory, and the doctor bore it with dramatic groans and exaggerated defeat.
It was the kind of comfort only familiarity could bring. The kind forged through shared loneliness and quiet battles fought behind hospital walls.
Eventually, Zane's phone buzzed — a gentle, inoffensive tone.
He froze.
Atlas noticed the change in his expression instantly. "Zane? Everything alright?"
Zane didn't answer. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the phone. Midnight. The screen burned the hour into his vision.
Atlas leaned to see it too.
The colour drained from his face. Not from surprise — just the confirmation of a truth he'd been trying not to feel.
"It's time."
Zane lowered the phone. "They've sent the order."
The machines kept humming. Life, measured in tones and blinking lights.
Atlas stared at the ceiling.
"I don't want to go," he admitted softly. "But I'm tired. And I don't want to be scared anymore."
Zane swallowed the lump in his throat. "You don't have to be. Not now."
"Then… please." Atlas looked at him, eyes shining with tears. "Just do it quickly. That's all I ask."
Zane nodded, and crossed the room on unsteady feet. He leaned down, pulling Atlas into a fragile, careful hug. The boy's frame was so small — like hugging memory itself.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, barely more than breath. "I wish I could've done more."
"You did enough," Atlas murmured back.
Zane pulled away, just enough to see his face one last time.
The boy smiled — small, bright, and impossibly brave.
"Thank you… for everything."
Zane turned to the machine.
"I hope… I hope your next life is kind," he said, voice cracking.
Eyes shut, Atlas exhaled.
"May God guide you into a new life of peace."
Zane pressed the button.
The beeping stopped.
And then — silence.