The critical condition of the person referred to as K

A few silent moments passed, as the door slowly closed behind me. He then told me that I should seriously consider chemotherapy, in the same tone as someone telling me it was time to buy new shoes. I was calm, and the doctor was calm, and the room was calm, and the temperature was suitable, and there was steam rising from the paper cups of tea in front of us. I held the cup to my lap and quietly lowered my head to it. Through the lower crack of the door, I could hear faint sounds from the corridor; calls for patients, and nurses moving lightly in pairs of white shoes, their steps sticking to the tiles. From a slightly farther area, a loud crying of a baby was echoing, probably injected with a needle. When the doctor resumed speaking, I was still holding the cup, which had become hotter between my hands. I was engrossed in staring into the cup with interest, as if the doctor's voice was coming from there.