Tyler's knees buckled and he found himself sitting on the plastic chair near the bed, his hands clamped to the edge like someone trying to keep from being swept away by a current. Melissa wept with a sound that was not theater but the real tearing of a soul. The nurse covered Silas's face with a clean cloth with a gentle, automatic motion that made the moment feel both humane and unbearably administrative.
A man in a dark suit—someone from the hospital's administration—walked by, eyes on a tablet, expression unreadable. Tyler looked at him and felt, for a flash, a hot cruel thought: this is the machinery of a country. The forms, the priorities, the schedule that decides who lives. He wanted to scream at the man, to make him understand the way life had been stripped down to procedures. He wanted to throw the tablet in the man's face until the glass cracked and some of the city's indifference shattered with it.
He did none of those things. Tyler had learned when to let rage be quiet, and how to make a small, useful plan instead.
When Melissa could stand she rose and gathered herself like a woman who had been trained to survive small catastrophes all her life. She touched Silas's hand once more and whispered something he could no longer answer. Then she looked at Tyler with a steadiness he had never seen before—the kind of look that was not hope but a plan.
"We need to take care of him," she said. "There are forms, and—" Her voice broke, but the content did not. She moved like someone who had rehearsed for emergencies even when the day was not emergency.
The corridor outside the emergency ward was too bright, too white. It felt like the world had been rinsed of color, leaving only the cold shape of things behind. A nurse guided Tyler and Melissa into a small administrative room—four walls, peeling paint, a single fan humming overhead like an insect that refused to die.
An officer sat behind the metal desk, his shirt neatly pressed, his pen tapping rhythmically as if trying to keep time with some internal annoyance. He didn't stand. He didn't offer condolences. He simply glanced at Tyler and Melissa with the weary disinterest of a man who processed grief for a living.
"Sit," he said, already flipping open a ledger.
Melissa lowered herself into the chair slowly, as if her bones were negotiating whether they could hold her. Tyler remained standing for a moment, unsure whether sitting would contain or release the shaking in his legs. He finally lowered himself beside his mother.
The officer adjusted his glasses, scanned a sheet, and began in a flat tone,"Cause of death recorded as cardiac arrest. Time of death listed at nineteen forty-three. Family members present?"
Melissa swallowed, her voice a whisper. "We were."
The man nodded, not out of sympathy but necessity, and continued writing."The body will be transferred to the holding unit for processing. There are procedural steps: death certificate request, municipal registration, release authorization…" He shuffled through more papers with a bored flick of his wrist. "These will take approximately seven to ten days."
Melissa's grief froze into confusion. "A week—? He can't stay here for a week. He has family. We have to… we can't…" Her voice cracked.
Tyler's fingers curled against his knees. "Isn't there a faster process? He can't—he shouldn't—"
The officer exhaled, the long suffering sigh of a man who had delivered this same speech too many times. "Sir, this is standard. We have backlog. Staff shortages. Budget cuts."
Melissa's voice rose—shaky, pained, desperate."He deserves dignity. He worked his whole life. You can't just keep him like—like storage—"
The officer finally looked up, expression neutral."There is another option."
The air tensed.
He leaned back in his chair, pen tapping three slow beats.
"If the family provides a donation to assist with processing fees… the hospital can prioritize the paperwork. Everything could be completed by tomorrow morning."
Tyler felt the shift immediately—the subtle emphasis, the lowered voice, the practiced tone. It wasn't an option. It was an offer. A price.
Melissa blinked hard, misunderstanding at first."A… donation?"
The officer kept his voice smooth. "Yes. A small amount to help with administrative strain. Ten thousand."
Ten thousand.
The number hit Melissa like a physical blow.
"That's…" She covered her mouth. "We don't have that kind of money. We can't—" Her voice broke again, but differently this time, not from grief but humiliation.
Tyler felt his jaw tense so sharply he thought something might fracture. The same day a clerk had asked him to pay for a job… now the system wanted money for his father's right to rest.
Melissa shook her head, tears returning in hot, frantic waves. "We can't do this. We can't let him wait a week. Tyler… what do we do? What do we do…?"
Tyler reached for her hand. She gripped his fingers with frightening strength, trembling like a child lost in a storm. He tried to steady her with a calm he did not feel.
"It's okay," he murmured. "Mom. It's okay. Breathe."
She shook her head again, hair falling across her face. "I can't. I can't. I can't leave him here. Not for a week. He hated hospitals. He always—" Her voice collapsed into sobs.
The officer glanced at them, unfazed. "I will file the paperwork once payment is submitted. Please return with the receipt."
Tyler looked at him. Really looked at him.
The man wasn't evil. He wasn't cruel. He was just… part of the machine.
And the machine didn't care unless you paid it to.
Tyler gently pulled his hand from Melissa's grasp. She looked up at him, eyes red, broken, begging him for a reality he could not give.
"Mom," he said softly. "I'll get the money."
She blinked in confusion through tears. "Ty… how? We don't have—"
"I'll get it." His voice was steady in a way that frightened even him. He stood.
Melissa tried to rise, but her legs gave way. "Wait—Tyler, wait—please don't leave me alone—"
He lowered himself briefly, resting a trembling hand on her shoulder."I'll be back soon," he whispered. "I promise. I'm not leaving you. I just… I need to do this."
"Tyler—"
He squeezed her shoulder once—gentle, final—and straightened.
Then, without looking at the officer again, he walked out of the room.
The hospital doors opened with a slow hiss, letting the night spill in like a cold confession. Tyler stepped out first, the air hitting his face in a way that felt almost punishing. Behind him, the fluorescent-lit corridor flickered as if the world inside and the world outside could not agree on who should hold him.
His mother sat in the administrative room behind him, hunched over forms she couldn't read through tears. He'd left her there—promising he would return, promising he would find the money, promising things he didn't know how to keep.Promises had become currency tonight.
The door closed behind him with a deep, muffled thud.
And suddenly everything was quiet.
Not peaceful.Quiet in the way an abandoned building is quiet—empty, echoing, inhospitable.
Tyler took three steps forward, then stopped. His breath misted out, then vanished, just like it always did. Life kept happening. The air kept moving. The sky didn't collapse to mourn his father.
The world did not notice that something irreparable had snapped.
He pressed a palm to his forehead, but his thoughts scattered like frightened birds. He couldn't gather a single one. Words wouldn't form. Memories flickered without sound. The night pressed against him from all sides, not with violence but with weight.
His legs started moving before a decision formed.
He walked.
Not toward anywhere familiar.Not toward home.Not toward anyone.
Just… away.
The parking lot lights buzzed above him. A cab honked faintly at some far corner of the street. Across the road, a man was closing his shop, dragging a metal shutter down with a screech that grated against Tyler's skull. He flinched.
He didn't even know why.
He walked faster.
The city felt different at night—longer, wider, hollow. Buildings became silhouettes of things he could not touch. Streetlamps blinked unevenly, lighting his path in broken intervals. The wind cut through his jacket like it was made of paper.
He tightened his grip on his satchel.
He didn't know whether he was holding onto itor it was holding onto him.
—
The sidewalks blurred. People were rare now—just a couple walking close together, a cyclist rushing home with his scarf wrapped twice around his head, a beggar mumbling prayers to a god Tyler no longer had a name for.
He felt each person's presence like a gust of air, ephemeral and weightless. No faces stayed long enough to be remembered.
A bus drove past, mostly empty. Its windows reflected a warped version of him: shoulders curled, face pale, eyes unfocused. He looked like a boy wearing a man's grief.
He turned into a narrower street without thinking.
His breath came too shallow.He stopped, but the world didn't.
He braced a hand against a wall, and the paint flaked under his palm.
"Dad…"The word escaped him without permission.
Hearing it made the truth heavier.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His mind replayed the moment Silas's fingers loosened, the way his father's hand—always warm, always steady—had gone cold in a breath. Tyler felt the shape of that moment echo through him like a fault line forming.
"No…" he whispered through clenched teeth. "No, no, no…"
He dragged in a breath that hurt.
His chest felt too tight. His heartbeat too loud. His throat too raw. He felt something rising—grief, anger, guilt, or all three fighting for the same space inside him.
He turned away from the wall and kept walking.
—
At some point, he crossed into a quieter district. Houses grew sparse. The road widened. The city lights dimmed. The sound of traffic softened into the far-off growl of distant engines.
He didn't notice the cold anymore. Shock had taken that sense from him.
His thoughts came in fractured pieces:
I let him down.If I were stronger—I should've noticed something was wrong.I should've worked harder.Why was it him? Why him?I have to get money.I can't get money.I can't do anything.I'm just… nothing.
The more he tried to focus, the more everything slipped through his fingers. His mind had become a sieve.
He slowed near a long stretch of empty road. Ahead, faintly lit by two dying streetlights, was the old pedestrian bridge—a simple concrete structure arching over the dried canal bed. During the day it was forgettable. At night, it looked like a doorway into someplace colder than the air.
He exhaled shakily.
His legs carried him toward it.
Not because he chose to.But because despair had a gravity stronger than reason.
He stepped onto the bridge. The metal railing was icy under his fingertips. The wind was stronger here, sweeping across him in long, empty breaths.
He felt smaller than he ever had.
The city behind him blurred.The stars above him dimmed.The world in front of him narrowed into darkness.
His knees weakened. He gripped the railing, fingers numb.
And for the first time since Silas collapsed…Tyler allowed himself to cry.
Not loud.Not dramatic.Silent tears, sliding down his face, carried away by the wind before they reached his jaw.
He hid his face against his sleeve.
"Dad… I'm sorry…" he whispered, voice cracking apart.
His breath stuttered.His shoulders shook.
He was twenty years old.And the world had never felt so monstrously large.
He didn't know how long he stood there—minutes, hours, or the stretch of a moment that felt infinite.
But eventually, when his tears dried and his exhaustion hollowed him out so thoroughly he could no longer stand straight…
He let go of the railing.
And sank to his knees.
The cold seeped through his clothes.The wind scraped his skin.His vision dimmed around the edges.
He didn't get up.
The night took him, piece by piece.Until all that remained was a boy sitting alone on a bridge, staring into the darkness as the last warmth drained from him.
And somewhere deep inside, a thought began to form—not a wish yet,not a prayer,just the faint outline of surrender.