Chapter 1: The Man Who Always Took the Stairs
Cyril Wallace had never liked hospitals. Not because of the smell of antiseptic or the flickering fluorescent lights, but because of what they represented—waiting rooms filled with forced hope, hushed whispers, and people pretending to care more than they did.

He took the stairs every time.Four flights today. His knees ached by the third, but he welcomed the burn. It gave him something to feel besides the dull, familiar resentment blooming in his chest. The elevator offered too many chances for unwanted conversation. A nurse making eye contact. A stranger offering a kind word. He didn’t have the patience to play the grieving husband this early in the morning.

In his hand was a small bouquet of white roses. They were pristine, scentless, and carefully arranged by the florist down the street. He hadn’t picked them for Larissa out of affection. She wouldn’t notice them. She hadn’t opened her eyes in weeks.He picked them because they projected the right image.

For the nurses, for the specialists, for her father. For the ever-curious relatives that appeared like vultures and circled with rehearsed sympathy.

The loving husband, loyal and enduring. That was his part.