The oncology ward on the fourth floor was usually a place of heavy, suffocating silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of IV pumps and the hushed murmurs of worried families. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the kind of dreary, grey day that seems to seep into the bones of everyone in the hospital, dampening what little hope remains in a place where bad news is delivered daily. I was volunteering as a companion for patients who had no family to sit with them during their treatments, a role that often left me emotionally drained and questioning the fairness of life. My assignment that day was Mr. Abernathy, a man in his late seventies with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer who had been given a prognosis of weeks, not months. The nurses had warned me that he was bitter, resigned, and deeply depressed, having lost his wife years ago and facing the end completely alone. I walked down the long, sterile hallway toward Bay 6, clutching a magazine and a cup of warm tea, steeling myself to encounter a man broken by fear and pain. The storm outside was raging, throwing rain against the glass, matching the turmoil I expected to find inside the room. I took a deep breath, adjusted my badge, and prepared to offer whatever small comfort I could to a soul facing the ultimate darkness.
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