The late shift at the hospice always brought quiet moments laced with a strange intensity, like waiting for something unseen to arrive. For Leila, it was the time she felt most connected to her patients, their whispered fears and confessions filling the void of the night.

Mr. Aram was her favorite. At 92, his body was frail, but his mind burned sharp, filled with stories of a life that spanned wars, revolutions, and empires. He often spoke of his youth in the Alborz Mountains, his voice soft and wistful, like a breeze brushing against worn pages.

That night, as Leila checked his vitals, he caught her wrist with surprising strength. "Sit," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming like polished amber.

She hesitated but pulled up a chair beside his bed. “What is it, Mr. Aram? Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “No pain. Just time.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s running out, and there’s something you should know. Something I’ve never told anyone.”

Leila leaned closer, her curiosity piqued.

“When I was a boy,” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I drank from the Ab-e Hayat.”

Leila blinked. The mythical Water of Life. It wasn’t the strangest story she’d heard from a patient, but something about his tone made her stomach tighten.

“I was only sixteen,” he continued. “A shepherd then, wandering far from home. One night, I followed a strange light into a cave. At its heart was a pool, glowing like the moon. I drank, and…” His voice cracked. “I felt it. Life. Endless life coursing through me.”

Leila frowned. “But… you’re here, Mr. Aram. In hospice.”

He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “That’s the thing about the water. It doesn’t promise immortality, not in the way we think. It gives life—but life, Leila jan, is not endless. It grows. It fades. Even rivers dry up eventually.”

She stared at him, her pulse quickening. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’ve carried it too long,” he said, his voice trembling. “The weight of living—watching everyone I’ve ever loved disappear while I stayed… it was unbearable. So I stopped drinking it. Let time catch up to me. And now, it has.”

Leila shook her head. “This… this doesn’t make sense.”

“Life rarely does,” he murmured. “But there’s one last thing. In my satchel.” He gestured weakly toward the corner of the room. “A gift. For you.”

Heart pounding, Leila retrieved the worn leather bag and found a small glass vial inside. The liquid shimmered, catching the dim light like liquid silver.

“It’s yours now,” he said, his voice fading. “Use it wisely. A sip can heal, bring clarity, or… prolong. But remember, Leila, nothing lasts forever.”

By the time she turned back to him, his chest had stilled, and his eyes stared softly into the void.

Leila sat there for a long time, the vial warm in her palm, her reflection distorted in its glow.

Weeks later, as she stood at her mother’s hospital bedside, watching the rise and fall of her shallow breaths, she slipped the vial from her pocket. She hesitated, hearing Mr. Aram’s words echo in her mind: Nothing lasts forever.

But then, with trembling fingers, she opened it.