In the days that followed, Richard locked himself in at home, wrapped in silence and solitude. Time lost meaning as the days passed without purpose. The grief kept him bound, a wall of sadness surrounding every corner of the house. But eventually, the necessities of life stirred him. One morning, he opened the fridge to find it empty. He'd forgotten to restock it and realized he would have to venture out.
With some reluctance, he stepped outside, blinking against the bright, fresh air. He walked to a nearby sandwich shop, buying a simple meal and a can of cola. Walking without thought, he found himself on a secluded stretch along the riverbank. It was peaceful here, away from the noise and bustle, just the gentle lap of water and the faint call of birds overhead.
As he ate, he watched a group of ducks swimming in lazy circles, dipping their heads into the water with a carefree innocence. A memory surfaced, clear and bittersweet: his mother had often brought him here as a child to feed the ducks, and later, when he was grown, she had continued coming alone. And in his adult years, he had come here with Sarah, sharing quiet afternoons on this very spot. It was as though time had circled back, blending past and present.
He held the last bit of his sandwich, then tossed it toward the ducks, watching them scramble for the crumbs with a faint, weary smile. The ache in his heart softened, if only for a moment. He felt as though he was reconnecting with a part of himself that he had thought lost, a version of him from a simpler time.
As he stood, an impulse took hold. He needed a change, something to break the cycle that had trapped him. He walked to a nearby barbershop and, without a second thought, asked for a new haircut. His reflection afterward felt like a stranger, yet he welcomed it, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. With newfound resolve, he visited a supermarket, filling his cart with essentials and frozen meals. His mother's absence lingered in every aisle, but he knew he couldn't continue as he had been. He would keep the house running as best as he could, moving forward one small step at a time.
That night, after stocking the fridge and cleaning his home thoroughly, Richard took a moment to sit in his mother's room, arranging her things just as she had left them, an homage to her memory. A faint sense of peace settled over him as he closed the door gently behind him, carrying with him the faint scent of lavender that had always lingered in her presence.
As he lay down that night, the house felt quieter but also steadier. He wasn't quite ready to let go of his grief, but he felt the stirrings of something new—a sense of survival that came from facing the pain head-on. The darkness had not lifted, but in that moment, he felt the strength to carry on.
Richard woke to the shrill beep of his alarm, cutting through the dense fog of his mind. Mechanically, he rose, dressed, and left for work, moving through the motions with robotic precision. At the office, he drowned himself in data sheets and chemical analyses, a maze of equations and formulations that allowed him to forget. Conversations flowed around him, voices drifting like muffled echoes that he tuned out. He wasn't here to socialize. He was here to do his job, to avoid the suffocating silence that awaited him back at home.
Life, if it could be called that, dragged on in this half-dead state. But one thing refused to let him forget he was alive: the persistent, throbbing headache that had plagued him since Sarah's death. What had started as a faint ache had now grown into a relentless hammering, made worse with each loss, and now unbearable after his mother's passing. Swallowing aspirin and paracetamol had become a ritual, each pill a lifeline that offered brief, hollow relief. The pain gnawed at him, a constant reminder that something deeper was wrong.
After weeks of worsening headaches, Richard finally gathered the resolve to visit a specialist. He underwent a series of tests, leading to a full-body scan. Two days later, he was called in to review the results. He waited in the sterile, white-walled room, staring at the faded medical posters, feeling as if he were in someone else's life, like a character waiting for a plot twist he couldn't control.
Dr. Samira Chauhan, his oncologist, entered with a somber expression. She was a poised, compassionate woman, her dark eyes reflecting both strength and sympathy. But her calm demeanor barely concealed the weight of her words.
"Richard," she began, her voice measured, "I'm afraid there's no easy way to tell you this." She paused, letting her words settle. "You have stage two pulmonary cancer."
The air seemed to drain from the room. Richard blinked, barely registering the shock as it clashed with an eerie sense of calm.
"But I never smoked in my life," he said, more in puzzlement than disbelief.
Dr. Chauhan hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Yes, it's odd. Especially at this stage. You told me you work for a chemical company, correct?"
Richard nodded, a frown creasing his forehead.
"There's a chance," she continued, "that this cancer may be work-related. Such an aggressive case at your age is rare. I suspect there might be an issue with the ventilation system or exposure to certain compounds. In cases like these, prolonged exposure to certain chemicals—even with protective masks—can sometimes lead to toxicity over time."
He shook his head. "But we're meticulous about safety. I wear my mask every time I'm in the lab or storage. My colleagues even tease me about it."
Dr. Chauhan's expression hardened. "Richard, masks can only do so much. And in some cases, companies cut corners, especially with safety equipment. They don't tell their employees. The risks you face could be much higher than you know."
Richard swallowed, his mind reeling. He wasn't ready to accept this new reality, but the steady conviction in her voice grounded him.
Seeing his struggle, Dr. Chauhan softened. "Between us, I've already filed a report with the Department of Health. You're not the first patient with similar issues coming from your company."
He stared at her, understanding dawning. "You think the company is at fault?"
She nodded slowly. "I would suggest you find a lawyer, Richard. You'll need compensation for treatments. It won't bring back what you've lost, but it might help secure you some options going forward."
Richard sat, numbed by the weight of her words, unable to muster the will to care about treatments or lawsuits. "No," he murmured. "I'm not interested in treatment. Just give me something for the pain, something to get by with."
Dr. Chauhan leaned forward; her expression fierce. "Without treatment, Richard, you're looking at maybe a year, six months if things progress. With treatment, there's a chance we could manage it. But only if we start now."
Richard sighed, giving her a tired look. "Doctor, I have no one left to fight for, and honestly, I'm not interested in fighting anymore. My life… it's not a life worth extending."
They parted on tense terms, but before he left, Dr. Chauhan slipped him her number. "If you change your mind," she said gently, "or if you ever just need to talk, don't hesitate to call."
That night, he went home and dialed an old classmate from school, who now worked as a lawyer. He explained everything, and together they prepared a lawsuit against his company for negligence and unsafe working conditions. Richard stopped going to work, filling his days instead with a whirlwind of luxuries and indulgences. With no one left to worry about, he finally tasted the life he had always pushed to the sidelines. Fine dining at Michelin-starred restaurants, luxury suits, high-end whiskey collections—all things he had never thought twice about but now savored with abandon.
For the first time in his life, Richard allowed himself to explore his whims without guilt. He bought the latest model gaming computer and lost himself in sprawling virtual worlds, finding a strange solace in the alternate realities. The contrast was jarring: a man who, months before, had meticulously saved, counted, and planned, now living each day as if it were his last.
Yet it wasn't just mindless escapism. His heart often led him to places rich with memories. He walked to parks where he and Sarah used to share quiet moments, retracing the path of countless conversations, laughter, and dreams left unfulfilled. It hurt, but he embraced the pain—it was all that kept him tethered to the world.