In the following weeks, room 305 gradually became a part of Clara’s daily life. Even when the other nurses secretly conspired to avoid duty with Don Fernando, Clara was always there—early, quietly, and with a warmth of concern that no amount of money could buy.
Every morning, he would open the curtain to let light into the room. He would make the bed, make sure the medicine was given at the right time, and wipe the old man’s forehead when he had a fever. Even if he wasn’t thanked, he wouldn’t stop. Sometimes, he would hear Don Fernando’s weak sighs at night—the breaths of a man who was so tired of living.
One night, while the entire VIP wing was silent, Clara found herself sitting next to the old man’s bed. She was holding a small towel, wiping the sweat from her hands.
“Why are you coming back?” Don Fernando suddenly asked, his voice hoarse. “Aren’t you tired of me?”
Clara smiled, even though there was a weight on her chest. “I’m tired, Sir. I’m only human. But I’m even more tired of seeing you alone.”
It could be an image of a hospital and text that says ‘A ล Decha Gruise Ce P’5,000,000.00 LASTWILL LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT’
The old man turned around, seemingly surprised. For the first time, there was no anger in his eyes—instead, there was a hint of surprise.
“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” he said softly. “Everyone who comes to me wants something. What do you want?”
Clara fell silent for a moment. She remembered Jason, the dreams that had been lost, and the nights she had cried alone. “I just wanted to help,” she replied. “And… maybe, find meaning in all the pain I’ve been through.”
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