Life passes in small scenes.
A group of soldiers walked past with heavy rucksacks, their boots thudding softly against the floor.
A father in a Yankees cap struggled to balance a car seat while holding two coffee cups.
A college student hugged a golden retriever that had clearly escaped its travel carrier.
Somewhere nearby, a gate agent announced final boarding for Miami.
A little boy dragged a stuffed dinosaur along the floor, the tail collecting every crumb of dust behind it.
I checked the departures board.
I checked my pulse.
I checked the quiet urge to apologize for being alive.
Then I opened another message thread.
Not family.
Not anyone who owed me anything.
Just a name saved in my phone.
Someone who once sat across a desk from me translating medical Latin into plain English and told me something I didn’t expect to hear.
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