Diana sat at her husband Eric’s bedside, the weight of impending loss pressing down on her. The words “stage four cancer” replayed endlessly in her mind, each repetition sharper than the last. The doctors had said he had only weeks to live, and every passing moment felt like sand slipping through her fingers.
The golden band on her finger felt heavier than ever, burdened by memories of the life they’d shared: lazy Sunday mornings, whispered laughter in the dark, and the steady reassurance of his hand in hers. Now, the man she loved seemed to be slipping away, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Outside the hospital, Diana sat on a bench, her tears hidden behind trembling hands. That’s when she noticed the nurse. She wasn’t remarkable—just another figure in scrubs—but there was something in her gaze, a quiet determination. The nurse sat beside Diana, her voice low but firm.
“Set up a hidden camera in his room,” she said, her words slicing through Diana’s sorrow. “He’s not dying.”
Diana blinked, confused and outraged. “Excuse me? He’s dying. The doctors confirmed it. How could you—”
“Just watch,” the nurse interrupted. “You deserve the truth.”
Before Diana could respond, the nurse stood and walked away, her figure disappearing into the hospital. Diana was left reeling. What truth? Eric’s diagnosis had been devastating, but it had been delivered by a team of professionals. Still, the nurse’s words planted a seed of doubt that wouldn’t stop growing.
The next day, Diana ordered a small hidden camera, her hands shaking as she placed the order. By the time it arrived, her resolve had hardened. Slipping into Eric’s room while he was out for a scan, she carefully hid the camera among the flowers on the windowsill.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure if she was apologizing to Eric or to herself.
