"The doctor said 'months, not years,'" Leonie told the fluorescent ceiling like it owed her something, and she smiled like it was a plan. Dr. Fergus Lin didn't smile back. He folded the scans—three panels of grayscale that looked like a geography of wrong—and set them on the desk between them. The oncology office smelled of cleaned linen and that faint antiseptic that pretends to be hope. "Stomach carcinoma," he said. "Advanced. It's aggressive. We can try chemo—palliative chemo. It might slow progression, reduce symptoms. It won't cure." Leonie's fingers traced the edge of the laminated patient brochure without looking at it. "How long?" Fergus met her eyes, then looked away like the number wasn't clean enough to say aloud. "Months. Six to twelve, if we respond. Could be less." She let the syllables land and folded them into something that fit. "Pain control?" "Yes." He opened a drawer and pushed a small orange bottle across the desk. The label was clinical, too small to be human. "Breakthrough med. Short course. If it gets worse, we move to hospice care and symptom management." "Will I have to—" She named the things people expected to fear: will I vomit, will I be in bed, will I be a burden. The list came out like a form. Fergus answered each question with the bluntness of someone who'd had to say the same things to other faces. "Some nausea. Fatigue. You can still be