The room where time is left.

"Not all goodbyes happen where we want them to.

But they are still goodbyes."

There was nothing special about it.

It was a room.

A bed.

A chair.

A window through which light came in in the morning and shadow rested in the afternoon.

The doctor had already said what needed to be said at such times.

There was no lie in it, but no hope either.

Just words that closed a chapter.

- Bedridden.

- Care.

- A matter of time.

After such sentences, many people leave.

Not in body - in soul.

Because it is easier to say: there is nothing to do than: I will stay here.

But they stayed.

Not because they believed in a miracle.

But because they believed in each other.

They knew what the end would be.

But they also knew that the path to the end was not the same.

They didn't want to count the days in hospital corridors.

Not in the ticking of cold clocks.

But in conversations.

In handshakes.

In silences that weren't empty.

Sometimes they laughed.

Sometimes they listened.

Sometimes they just sat there next to each other, and that was enough.

The room didn't get smaller because the farewell was approaching.

In fact.

It was as if it was getting more and more spacious.

Because where there is love, there is always room.

They didn't cure anyone.

They didn't turn back time.

But they gave something that can't be prescribed:

Dignity.

Presence.

Humanity.

And this time - no matter how little it seemed from the outside - became life inside.

Because whoever gains time doesn't gain days.

But moments.

And life is made up of moments.

The end has come.

As always.

Quietly.

But not in a bed.

Not among strangers.

But where it had been:

in love.

And those who remained knew later:

The question was not whether life could be saved.

But whether the path remained human.

And it was.

"The end does not always come as we wish.

But the path can be human."