Several weeks of agonizing waiting passed. Boris Petrovich lay in the intensive care unit—his life hanging by a thin thread, like a bird hesitant to leap from a branch into the abyss. The doctors were doing everything possible, but the man’s body, worn out by severe bilateral pneumonia, was exhausted to the limit. Mechanical ventilation supported his breathing because his own organs could no longer handle the task. Every day in that ward was like a battle—a battle for life, where the victor could be time… or death.
Svetlana Arkadyevna, his wife, came every day. She spent hours at her husband’s bedside, stroking his hand, whispering words of love he no longer heard, telling him about how their grandson had learned to recite poetry, how the roses bloomed in the garden. Sometimes she simply remained silent, watching the flickering monitor and listening to the steady signals of the ventilator. During this time, her face had grown gaunt, her gaze vacant, and her voice quieter, as if fear had drained the life out of her.
But fear is not the only thing that lives within a person. Fear can accompany fatigue, anger, disappointment… and even a strange, almost unbearable thought of freedom. A thought the woman never allowed herself to voice aloud. But deep inside her soul, that thought existed. Because being near a dying person is also a slow death, especially when you understand: there is no chance, only hope sustained by machines.
That evening, the hospital corridors were unusually quiet. It was as if the building itself had frozen, waiting for something important. At the nurses’ station was Liliya Sergeyevna—a seasoned nurse who had worked in intensive care for many years. Over time, she had seen everything: tears of joy and screams of despair, promises made on the edge of consciousness, and farewells no one wanted to accept. She knew many patients by name, and some by their life stories. She had often seen Svetlana Arkadyevna, and over time between them arose something that could not be called friendship but was close to trust—even if silent.
Late at night, when almost no visitors remained in the hospital, Svetlana, overcoming an inner tremor, approached Liliya. Her voice trembled like a candle flame in a draft:
— I can’t do this anymore… He’s suffering. I’m suffering. Let it all end…
The nurse looked at the woman for a long time without a word. Emotions flickered in her eyes—compassion, fear, contemplation—that could not be put into words. Then she lowered her gaze, as if weighing in her mind something more than just a moral choice: duty versus humanity, professionalism versus pain.
Sometimes fate offers turns you cannot ignore. Especially when the request comes with an envelope, neatly wrapped and tightly filled. With a trembling hand, Svetlana slipped it into the pocket of Liliya Sergeyevna’s robe. Neither of them said a word. Only something shared flashed in their eyes—despair, acceptance, and perhaps hope that this step would be the last for all of them.
A few minutes later, Liliya entered the room. The door closed behind her with a muffled click. Silence reigned inside, broken only by the steady hum of the machines. The air felt thick, heavy, as if filled not only with electronics but unspoken thoughts. The nurse checked the door was locked, then approached the ventilator. Her fingers touched the control panel—she knew perfectly well how to turn off the device to stop everything without noise or attention.
Her hand hovered over the button. One second. Two. Three. The fluorescent light seemed cold, almost cruel. At that moment, the door slammed open.
On the threshold stood Antonina Pavlovna—the cleaner who had worked in the hospital for over twenty years. She always preferred night shifts—then she could work calmly, without extra eyes and chatter. The woman was known for her talkativeness and good-natured character, but now her gaze was sharp, alert. She noticed the tension in the nurse’s posture, the anxiety on Svetlana Arkadyevna’s face, and though she understood nothing specific, she immediately felt—something was wrong here.
— Working with the vest again, Liliya Sergeyevna? — she said with usual irony, but suspicion slipped clearly into her tone.
The nurse flinched. Straightened sharply, hiding her hands behind her back. Svetlana glanced at the cleaner, trying to think of an explanation that wouldn’t raise questions. But Antonina didn’t hurry away. She started washing the floor right by the door, seemingly deliberately staying nearby, watching every movement.
The atmosphere in the room became almost unbearable. It felt as if the air was electrified, filled with invisible waves of fear and tension. Liliya dared not proceed—not with a witness who could tell everything. She stepped away from the machine, taking several deep breaths as if trying to regain control.
Minutes dragged endlessly. Only the splashing of water from the bucket and the squeak of the mop broke the silence. Svetlana stood by the window, pretending nothing affected her. Liliya kept looking at the ventilator’s monitor, where Boris Petrovich’s heart still flickered. She thought how easy it would be to end this torment. And at the same time—how now she could never do it.
When Antonina Pavlovna finished cleaning, she cast a final, intense glance at the women, said nothing, and left the room, leaving behind a shiny floor and a strange, oppressive silence.
Liliya remained alone with the patient. His breathing was still artificial but still breathing. She looked at him, at his exhausted face, and for the first time in a long while felt relief. Because at that moment she understood: sometimes it takes just one accidental person with a simple mop to stop the hand ready to cross the line. To save not only someone’s life but one’s own conscience.
That’s what happened this time too.
