Roman

He was a military doctor. Not by calling — but by circumstances. War taught him two things: to make decisions quickly and not to get attached to people. He lost too many to allow himself another loss.

When he returned to civilian life, he chose massage — not because he loved it, but because he could work in silence. His hands remembered how to hold a scalpel, but he no longer wanted to see blood. He wanted to touch the living and feel that they were breathing.

He lives alone. He has a job, has habits, has order. He doesn’t seek relationships because he fears that his past is too heavy a burden for someone else’s shoulders. Sometimes, when he is alone in the office, he looks at his hands and remembers how they held those who didn’t survive. He still doesn’t know how to learn to hold those who remain.