The ward was quiet. Only the steady beeping of the machines and the dim light of the night lamp could be heard. The woman had been lying motionless for almost three months.

Her husband came every day, held her hand, rested his head on the pillow beside her, and whispered words of love. To everyone, he was an example of devotion. When the doctors told him that there was no hope left, that his wife’s body was gradually failing, and that a decision had to be made, he broke down in tears.

His words were so quiet that they seemed meant only for her:

— From now on, all your property belongs to me. Farewell, my dear. Behind him, a plainclothes officer was watching.

A few weeks earlier, suspicions had arisen that the woman’s condition was not the result of an accident. Tests showed small amounts of poison in her blood—too little to kill immediately, but enough to keep her between life and death. The police decided to set a trap.

The doctors informed the husband of the “inevitable end” while allowing hidden surveillance. And so, the confession, whispered into the void, became the key. The husband exposed himself.

When he left the room, two uniformed officers met him. At first, he didn’t understand what was happening, but when he saw the cold stares, he tried to justify himself. Too late.

He was led away in handcuffs down the long corridor. In the room, she remained. The doctors knew: without continuous poisoning, her body would start to fight back.

And indeed—after a few days, the monitors showed improvement for the first time. The woman moved her fingers, then opened her eyes. The world greeted her with the whisper of a nurse:

— It’s all over.

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