The city hospital stood like a white monolith against the shimmering heat. Eli's shirt clung to his back as he pushed through the sliding glass doors, air-conditioning slapping the sweat off his skin. Inside, everything was too bright. White floors. White walls. Machines whispering in glass cases. It smelled like antiseptic and tired electricity.
In Room 314, his mother was already seated. She smiled when she saw him—softly, apologetically—and reached out, curling her fingers around his. Her hand was warm. Too warm.
The doctor stood opposite them, tablet in hand, posture straight as a scalpel.
"Diffuse Neural Reconstruction Syndrome," he said without ceremony. "DNRS. It's rare. The neural cortex begins to—reconfigure, or rather, collapse. We anticipate episodic memory loss within six months. Treatment, at best, slows the progression. Stabilizing her brain's electric field would require a Li-AuCrite implant. The materials alone are…prohibitively expensive."
Eli's mother didn't look at the doctor. She kept her eyes on him. She hadn't let go of his hand.
He didn't say a word. His nails dug into his palm, leaving half-moons.
Behind them, their father stood by the window, nodding faintly.
"Thank you, Doctor," he muttered. Then he turned, lit a cigarette just outside the door.
Smoke curled back in.
The apartment always smelled faintly of oil and damp metal. It was a ground-floor unit in an old workers' block near the factories—thin walls, no insulation. The kitchen tiles were stained with age, and the fan above the stove rattled like a sick insect. Outside, machines groaned in the distance as dusk settled over the industrial sprawl.
Eli sat at the small table, his backpack dumped by the chair, staring at his mother's back. She moved like nothing had changed. Oil hissed in the pan, onions sizzling. She hummed softly—off-key, but steady.
"You knew already," he said.
She didn't turn around.
"You knew for a while. Right?"
She flipped the egg with a practiced wrist. "You were always the kind of kid who didn't cry," she said. "I used to wonder about that. A baby who just… stared. Like he was already tired of the world."
He didn't respond. The smell of burning edges curled into his nose.
"If I started crying now," she continued, voice light, "what would you do? Who's going to hold it together if I fall apart?"
"You should've told me."
"I did. Just now. Over dinner. That's normal, isn't it?" She smiled as she plated the food. "Anyway, people die. I've had a good run. The doctor said I still have half a year. That's plenty."
She brought the food to the table, sat down across from him like any other night.
The TV in the living room played in the background. A dry voice narrated over blue-lit footage of drilling rigs and elevator shafts.
"…The National Deep Earth Program is entering Phase IV. With pressure-adaptive suits and new core-boring technologies, descent beyond 11,000 meters is now possible…"
Eli didn't move. His fork stayed untouched.
The house had gone still.
Through the thin wall, Eli could hear the refrigerator hum and the distant sound of a neighbor coughing. The kitchen light was still on. He found his father sitting there alone, hunched over a chipped table, fingers resting on a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray he hadn't emptied in days.
They didn't speak at first.
The old man took a long drag, the ember flaring weakly. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a worn black card, and slid it across the table.
"Hospital hasn't billed everything yet, has it?" he said, voice rough. "Just use it. Max it out."
Eli looked at the card but didn't take it.
"It's the last one," his father added. "Limit's low. But it's something."
There was silence. His father stared down at his fingers as if trying to recognize them.
"She's not even fifty," he muttered. "Not even…"
His voice cracked, the sound barely more than a whisper.
Eli didn't move. The air between them was dry, heavy with unspoken things.
Then—just for a moment—his father closed his eyes. A tear escaped, slid down the weathered cheek, and disappeared into the corner of his mouth.
Eli felt a strange ache in his chest, like something folding inward.
I wanted to cry then. Really cry.
But I remembered something Mom once said: "If you want to be a man, you hold the roof up while others fall apart."
That's the rule.
The hospital smelled different in the morning. Less bleach, more sweat. People moved slower, eyes sunken, some clutching folders or clear bags filled with medication. Eli stood in line at the diagnostics desk, a printed paper in his hand. The fluorescent lights above flickered like tired nerves.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He almost ignored it, but something made him swipe green.
"Eli Mercer," a woman's voice said, calm and clear. "I know you need the Li-AuCrite stabilizer. You can't afford it. But I can give you a chance."
He blinked. "…Who are you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she said: "Deep-shaft mining. Government-backed. Classified project. You sign, and I'll handle the rest. Full medical coverage. Including the implant."
For a moment, Eli didn't speak. Around him, a child was wailing in its mother's arms. An old man in a wheelchair coughed into a mask, struggling to breathe. Nurses moved like ghosts.
Eli pressed his thumb against the wall. The paint flaked under his nail.
Then he whispered, "I'm in."
The call cut instantly.
He stayed there for a while. Listening to the background noise of sickness, grief, survival. The chaos of lives hanging by threads.