The bright sunlight made Carl squint as he opened his eyes. He found himself on a manicured lawn, surrounded by guests dressed in their finest. White rose petals lined either side of a red carpet runner, while pink and white balloons drifted lazily against a cloudless blue sky. Champagne-colored ribbons adorned the rows of seats, swaying gently in the breeze.
The scent of roses and lilies hung in the air, mingling with the melodic strains of a string quartet. Guests chatted in small groups, their faces bright with anticipation. Flower girls in lace dresses darted about, scattering petals from wicker baskets.
Wedding bells pealed across the grounds. The crowd parted to form an aisle. As the organ struck up the bridal march, Carl spotted Elizabeth on her father's arm, making her way down the carpet. Her white lace gown was embellished with tiny pearls, her golden hair gleaming beneath the delicate veil. Joy radiated from her face, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall.
Her father, steadying her arm, struggled with his own emotions. Carl caught him quickly dabbing at his eye – the unmistakable gesture of a father about to give away his daughter.
At the end of the aisle stood young Clark, striking in a black morning suit with a white rose in his buttonhole. His eyes never left Elizabeth, love evident in his gaze, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Beside him, a kindly vicar waited, Bible in hand.
Elizabeth's father placed her hand in Clark's. "Look after her," he said, his voice rough with emotion. Clark nodded solemnly. "With my life." They exchanged a smile before turning toward the vicar.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, bathing them in a golden glow. A hush fell over the gathering; only their voices carried across the still air.
"I, Henry Clark, take thee, Elizabeth White, to be my wedded wife. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part."
"I, Elizabeth White, take thee, Henry Clark, to be my wedded husband. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part."
The rings were exchanged, their hands steady but trembling slightly. The vicar blessed their union and pronounced them husband and wife. Clark lifted Elizabeth's veil and kissed her, his hands cradling her face.
Applause and cheers erupted from the crowd. Flower girls tossed petals skyward while white doves circled overhead. "All the best!" "Happiness always!" Bridesmaids laughed through tears, dabbing at their eyes, while Clark's university friends whistled and cheered.
Carl was losing himself in the celebration when a voice, uncomfortably close, broke through his reverie. "They make quite the couple, don't they?" The voice seemed to uncoil from some buried recess of his memory, jarringly out of place. Carl turned, his stomach dropping. The wedding's warmth seemed to evaporate instantly.
The old gentleman stood there, dressed as always: bowler hat, dark gray overcoat covering a perfectly tailored black suit, shoes polished to a mirror shine. His ebony cane rested in one gloved hand. The eyes behind those gold-rimmed spectacles reminded Carl of ancient clocks in a forgotten museum – deep, inscrutable, and now glinting with something like amusement.
A chill crept up Carl's spine. He stepped back instinctively, words catching in his throat. Before he could speak, the old gentleman's hand closed around his arm. Though aged in appearance, the grip held the strength of tempered steel. "Detective Carl. Time we moved on." The voice was barely above a whisper, yet brooked no disagreement – exactly as it had during their first encounter.
Before Carl could react, an invisible force pulled at him, drawing him into a vortex of emptiness. The wedding, the guests, all the colors twisted and blurred like watercolors in rain. Sunlight vanished, replaced by a biting cold that stung like needles on his skin. Wind howled in his ears as the sounds of celebration faded, then disappeared entirely.
Panic surged through him. He fought to move, but his limbs refused to respond. The air thinned. Fractured images flashed before his eyes like shards from a shattered kaleidoscope. The only constant was the old man's grip on his arm – both a tether to this nightmare and, paradoxically, his only anchor to reality.
When Carl's vision cleared, he stood in a parade ground outside military barracks gates. Dawn was breaking. Rows of young men in pale blue medical corps uniforms stood at attention, silver badges catching the early light. Looking down, Carl saw he wore the same uniform, white collar and cuffs crisply starched.
The imposing gates loomed ahead, flanked by rigid sentries. Army buses idled nearby, ready to transport the new recruits. Families gathered at a distance, faces etched with the sadness of farewell. Clark stood out immediately among the recruits – so young, his boyish features at odds with the military uniform. Beyond a barrier, Elizabeth waited, waving a white handkerchief, her smile brave but fragile.
"Henry!" Her voice carried a slight quaver in the morning air. "Henry!"
Clark's head snapped up, his eyes immediately finding her in the crowd. He raised both hands, waving vigorously. Even from a distance, Carl could see tears threatening to spill from Clark's eyes, held back only by sheer will.
Her handkerchief fluttered like a small flag. Their gazes locked across the space between them – a moment of private communion amid the public farewell. Clark's lips trembled before setting in a determined smile that matched hers.
As Carl found himself moved by their silent exchange, something invisible coiled around his waist and yanked him backward. He reached out desperately, but his hands passed through everything they touched. The scene began to warp; the barracks, the crowd, the buses all dissolved into streaks of color, like a canvas left in the rain.
The world contracted to a single point of brilliant light, which suddenly exploded into a swarm of white butterflies that danced through the surrounding darkness. Their wings emitted a soft, pearlescent glow, tracing delicate patterns in the void.
Carl reached out and touched one. It unfolded beneath his fingertip like a flower blooming in time-lapse, then vanished. The others followed suit, each transforming into flowing streams of images.
Memories began to play out before him.
Dawn at the army medical base, brick buildings half-hidden in morning mist. Clark startled awake at the bugle call, fumbling with brass buttons, his highly polished boots only half-laced. During the morning run, he lagged behind the others, gasping for breath as he passed ancient oak trees lining the parade ground. His lungs burned with each labored breath.
Later, standing beside a hospital bed, medical chart trembling in his hands. The ward sister removed a bandage, revealing an angry red wound that forced Clark to turn away, Adam's apple bobbing as he fought down nausea. That night, huddled in the cold duty room, Elizabeth's gentle voice on the phone provided his only comfort. "It takes time to become a good doctor, my love." His voice cracked as he responded, "I don't think I'm cut out for this, Liz."
On the training ground, thick mud clung to his boots like lead weights. His medical pack dug into his shoulders. He fell repeatedly, face and uniform caked with mud and sweat, only to rise again each time. The grizzled Sergeant Major approached, offering a canteen of water, his weathered face unexpectedly kind. "Nobody knows this stuff from birth, Clark. A medic's job is to stand when everyone else has fallen."
In the night ward, a single desk lamp cast long shadows across his tired face. A cup of tea, made hours earlier to Elizabeth's precise instructions, sat cold and forgotten. When a groan came from the adjacent ward, he hesitated only briefly before grabbing his stethoscope and striding purposefully down the echoing corridor. He maintained his vigil until dawn broke over the church spires visible from the narrow windows.
During rare quiet moments, he would stand by those windows, gazing at the distant town lights that reminded him of Elizabeth's eyes by candlelight. In his breast pocket, close to his heart, he kept her photograph and a creased note in her elegant handwriting: "My dearest Henry, remember that the most breathtaking views come after the steepest climbs."
The memories shifted.
Morning light gilded the spires as Clark's footsteps echoed with newfound confidence. The burning in his lungs during runs now felt familiar, reminiscent of rowing practice at College. His father's words often came to mind: "Clark men face the storm head-on." Gradually, he found his rhythm in the demanding routine.
The emergency room no longer filled him with dread. When ambulance sirens cut through the fog, he was first at the entrance, steady-voiced: "I'll take this one."
During field exercises, the medical pack became an extension of himself. He crossed streams and scaled muddy hills with surprising agility. The Medical Officer watched his progress with grudging approval: "Good work, Doctor Clark. The kind of man we need."
In hospital corridors at night, his steps were purposeful, assured. The pace here dwarfed anything he'd experienced at university, but he had found his place in the urgent rhythm of life and death.
When the Brigadier pinned the Distinguished Service Medal to his chest in the oak-paneled regimental hall, sunlight through stained glass windows set the medal ablaze. The journey from uncertain medical student to respected army doctor had cost him dearly, but it had forged something stronger within him.
The memories faded like morning mist touched by sunlight.
Darkness enveloped him once more.
Carl felt himself falling through endless space until a voice, barely audible, whispered: "I never feared death until I met it face to face."
His eyes snapped open. Darkness still surrounded him, but faint light seeped through—dawn approaching behind heavy curtains.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt weighted with lead. Breathing required conscious effort, each inhalation a struggle against constricting pressure in his chest. A dull ache permeated his body; his bladder was painfully full, yet he couldn't summon the strength to relieve himself.
An oxygen mask covered his face, tubes pierced his skin. Nearby, a monitor beeped steadily, the green line of the ECG flickering in the dim light.
A vivid image flashed in his mind—an operating theater, bright and shadowless. Clark stood at the table, arms blood-soaked to the elbows. A patient's abdomen lay open, organs visible, blood welling up relentlessly.
Medical staff around him watched the heart monitor. The green line, once dancing with life, now stretched flat.
"Time of death... eight forty-seven," someone announced, voice clinically detached.
Others shook their heads, patting Clark's shoulder. "You did everything possible." Professional sympathy, distant and practiced.
Nausea churned in Carl's stomach. Grief washed over him, followed by fear and helplessness so intense they seemed to crush his chest.
It felt undeniably real—as if he were Clark, collapsed on the theater floor after losing his first patient.
The ECG's beep echoed in the silence. He closed his eyes but couldn't escape the overwhelming despair.
Another image formed—Clark standing straight-backed at the operating table. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dabbed away by a quick-thinking nurse.
His hands moved with precision inside the patient, every movement deliberate. The scalpel seemed to know its purpose, clamps finding bleeding points without hesitation.
"Blood pressure still falling!" "Another amp of adrenaline!" Clark gritted his teeth, feeling life slipping away.
Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn't dare pause. Time seemed viscous, each second stretching endlessly.
"God," he prayed silently, "please save this one..."
The monitor's alarm shattered the tense silence.
"Cardiac arrest!"
"Starting CPR!"
"One, two, three, four..."
"Adrenaline in!"
"Defibrillator!"
"Charging!"
"Clear!"
The patient's body arched with the shock, then fell back lifeless. The ECG remained stubbornly flat.
"Continue CPR!"
Ten minutes passed, feeling like hours.
"Call it. Time of death..."
Clark ripped off his mask and fled the theater. His footsteps pounded down the corridor, each step heavy with defeat.
In the furthest bathroom stall, he sank to his knees. Sobs wracked his body as he covered his face with trembling hands, shoulders heaving.
His stomach convulsed suddenly. He clutched the toilet bowl and retched violently, again and again.
Carl felt that same tearing pain, as if his own chest were being crushed. His stomach clenched in sympathy, throat tight.
Clark leaned against the cubicle wall, tears streaming silently. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "So sorry..."
A new scene unfolded—Clark at the operating table. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths. He calmed his racing heart, cleared his mind as Elizabeth had taught him: "Think of yourself as a still lake, Henry."
When his eyes opened, his gaze was steady. The injuries before him were worse than anything he'd seen—flesh ripped by shrapnel, burns, splintered bone—but his hands remained steady.
"Forceps."
"Clamps."
"Suture."
Each movement flowed naturally, hands and instruments working as one. Time moved with his fingers, each stitch placed with reverent care.
The final suture complete, monitor readings stabilized, the patient's breathing evened out.
Clark sighed, a small smile touching his lips. "Good luck, Corporal."
Then, catastrophe—the patient coughed violently, blood gushing from his mouth. Clark's eyes widened. "Adrenaline, quickly!"
His hands returned to the wound, racing against time. Gradually, the bleeding stopped, vital signs stabilizing again.
Clark watched the flickering line on the monitor, praying silently, "Come on, Corporal. Fight. I know you can."
The patient's eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly. Carl's heart lurched—those eyes held a spark of life, powerful and moving. With tremendous effort, the patient raised one hand weakly.
Clark reached toward it, but before contact, the hand fell limply. The patient's eyes closed. The ECG line flickered once more, then flattened.
"Why?" The word echoed in Carl's mind, bouncing off invisible walls, trapped.
"Why? I tried so hard..." Clark's voice held raw anguish, a despair so profound it threatened to tear Carl apart. He felt Clark's pain—the agony of almost saving someone, only to lose them at the final moment.
"Why... why..." The words beat a painful rhythm in his consciousness.
Images began spinning wildly—pale faces, dulling eyes, flat monitor lines.
Clark appeared in every scene, repeating the same desperate attempts—resuscitation, surgery, then confronting death. Each memory fragment reflected the same despair, like pieces of a shattered mirror.
At first, Carl felt each death's sharp pain distinctly. Gradually, the feeling dulled, like skin becoming numb from repeated abrasion.
The sorrow remained, but muffled now, as if viewed through frosted glass.
The spinning stopped abruptly. The final scene expanded—Clark swaying at the operating table, thinner than before.
His surgical gown, recently discarded, still damp with blood. His eyes were vacant, as if his spirit had already departed. Suddenly, he pitched forward.
Icy cold swept through Carl, starting at his toes and creeping upward, invading flesh and bone.
His breathing grew shallow, heartbeat slowing, as if all warmth were being systematically drained from his body.
Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision, consciousness fraying.
Then that voice again, now filled with terror and desperation: "Why me? Why me?"
The cry echoed through darkness, trembling with mortality's fear.
"I don't want to die... please, I don't want to die..." The plea hung briefly before being swallowed by deeper darkness.
Carl felt himself falling into nothingness, life slipping through his fingers like fine sand.
The helplessness, the primal fear of death, the desperate clinging to life—all resonated within his very cells.
The scene shifted abruptly—urgent footsteps on linoleum, shouted orders, monitor alarms blaring down a hospital corridor.
Clark's pale body lay on a gurney, head lolling lifelessly, lips tinged blue.
"BP crashing!"
"Get him to theater, now!"
"Theater B standing by!"
"Call anesthetics, stat!"
Doctors swarmed around Clark, efficiently inserting tubes. An oxygen mask covered his face, each shallow breath briefly fogging the plastic.
Carl felt every needle's sting, the cold fluids entering his veins, the claustrophobic pressure of the mask.
The sensation was unnervingly real—as if this failing body were his own.
And then he knew with sudden clarity—this was his body.
The moment realization dawned, something moved in his throat. Muscles contracted involuntarily, lips parting.
A strange, cold voice emerged from his own mouth: "How does it feel, Detective, waiting for death's embrace?"
The words had barely faded when Clark's maniacal laughter erupted, echoing through the empty ward. It was a harsh, unearthly sound—like laughter from the depths of hell itself.