The first signs didn’t roar—they whispered. They came like missing keys, like tiny cracks in the surface of an ordinary day. Mark forgot a line in a script, misplaced his keys twice in one morning, or paused mid-sentence as if the thread of thought had suddenly snapped.

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At first, the family laughed it off. They blamed it on a packed schedule, the stress of constant work, the frantic rhythm of life scattering the maps we carry in our pockets. But laughter eventually thinned to silence.

When Mark started losing more than time—when meals became only a few reluctant bites, when evenings dissolved into long, heavy naps—shadows stretched longer across the walls of their home.

Tests were ordered as a precaution, but the results came like a sharp blade. The diagnosis arrived in a language both sterile and brutal: cancer. That word sat between Kelly and Mark like a hot plate, something that required gloves, deliberation, and a kind of fragile tenderness to approach.
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