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.

"I drank so I could be the hero I wasn't," he murmured. "In the glass, I was a king. On the bed... I'm just a man who forgot how to live without a shadow." sunt_betiv_pe_pat_de_moarte

Ion let out a wet, gravelly laugh that turned into a cough. "My heart stopped forty years ago when your mother left. This? This is just the engine finally running out of fuel." He took one last, shallow breath, his grip loosening

"You know," he whispered, his voice suddenly clear, "everyone thinks a deathbed is for apologies. But I don't want to apologize for the drinking. I want to apologize for the reasons I started." "In the glass, I was a king

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 reached out, his fingers brushing Elena’s hand. For a second, the fog cleared. He saw her—the life he had partially missed, the daughter who had stayed despite every broken promise.

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.