The critical condition of the person called K - Dar Al-Tanweer

A few silent moments passed, while the door slowly closed on its own. Then he told me that I must seriously consider chemotherapy, in the same tone someone tells me it’s time to buy new shoes. I was calm, the doctor was calm, 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, the loud crying of a baby, probably injected with a needle, was echoing. When the doctor resumed speaking, I was still holding the cup, which had become warmer between my hands. I stared into the cup with interest, as if the doctor’s voice was coming from there.