He had come to the hospital many times, and each visit filled him with the same sense of irritation and fatigue.

Cyril always chose the stairs over the elevator—not because he enjoyed the climb, but because he didn’t want to make eye contact, answer questions, or put on his mask of concern for others.

This time, he carried a bouquet of small white roses. Larissa, his wife, likely wouldn’t see or smell them, lying unconscious as she had been for weeks. But flowers gave the right impression—to the doctors, to her family. He had to keep up appearances.

Every day she stayed alive drained his finances further. The equipment, the care, the drugs—it all cost more than he was willing to give. And yet, everyone clung to hope. Everyone but him.

What if Larissa died? Her properties, her money, her business—all of it would fall into his hands. The thought filled him with guilt and relief in equal measure.

He entered the room and leaned over her. “Larissa,” he whispered, “I never really loved you. Not like you thought.” His voice trembled. “Your illness has ruined me financially. If you’d just… go… everything would be easier.”

Unbeknownst to Cyril, someone was hiding under the bed—Mirabel, a hospital volunteer who had ducked under it to avoid him. She heard everything.

Later, Cyril acted the devoted husband again as Larissa’s father, Harland, entered. Harland, visibly worn, asked about any changes. Cyril lied smoothly, masking the darkness inside him. But Harland’s gaze lingered, uncertain.

Mirabel, shaken by what she overheard, debated what to do. Breaking patient confidentiality could get her in trouble—but staying silent could be worse. Eventually, she confided in Harland.

“He said he’d be better off if she died,” she told him.

Harland paled but nodded. “Thank you. I’ve suspected for some time.”