Sunt_betiv_pe_pat_de_moarte -

He took one last, shallow breath, his grip loosening. He died as he lived: caught between a bitter truth and a sweet, numbing lie.

His daughter, Elena, didn't move. Her eyes were red, not from the fumes, but from three nights of watching her father slip away. "The doctor said it would stop your heart, Tata." sunt_betiv_pe_pat_de_moarte

The room smelled of stale antiseptic and cheap plum brandy—the kind that burns the throat and numbs the soul. Ion lay back, his breath a ragged whistle, staring at the peeling wallpaper as if it were a map of his own misspent life. He took one last, shallow breath, his grip loosening

Ion closed his eyes. He saw the golden fields of the Bărăgan, the sweat on his brow, and the crushing weight of a life that never quite fit the man he wanted to be. The alcohol hadn't been a choice; it had been a shroud, keeping the cold reality of his failures at bay. Her eyes were red, not from the fumes,