Herald stared at his own haggard reflection, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and the crushing weight of the doctor's words. "Six months and a painful end," he muttered, his voice echoing against the cold porcelain. He reached into the cabinet, unscrewed a bottle of pills, and swallowed them one by one, the taste chalky and bitter. Just as the third pill slid down, the shrill ding-dong of the doorbell sliced through the silence, dragging him unwillingly back from the brink.

Paperboy, a freckled teenager with nervous energy, thrust the newspaper forward. "Hello sir, I don’t usually knock, but your mailbox is full!" Herald sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yes, my wife used to collect the mail," he said, voice flat. "Erm, here’s your paper, sir. I can empty your mailbox if you like?" "No, I shall empty it," he replied, shutting the door with a thud. He dumped the stack of mail straight into the trash, not sparing a glance at the headline—‘Schizophrenic War Talks’—before trudging back inside.

Just as Herald ties the rope and steels himself, the doorbell rings again, insistent and jarring. Mrs. Adler, a kindly neighbor with frazzled hair and a worried face, stands at the door clutching a shivering cat. "Sorry to bother you, Herald. My cat Pickles is sick, and since you worked at the vet hospital, could you take a look?" "Come in. I’ll look at him—it’s not like I have anything better to do!" After a quick examination, Pickles was diagnosed with indigestion and the grateful neighbor departed, leaving Herald alone once more, frustration mounting.

Herald slips behind the wheel, trailing a hose from the exhaust. He coughs, eyelids fluttering, when the garage door crashes open. Tom, a burly neighbor with grease-stained jeans, pokes his head in. "Hi Herald, phew, it’s smoky in here! Can I borrow your weed whacker? I’ll bring it back in a few days." "Yes, Tom, you can keep it. I don’t need it anymore," Herald croaks, voice thin. "You might want to get your car exhaust fixed, Herald," Tom remarks, obliviously, before disappearing with the weed whacker, leaving Herald to his grim business.

Herald pauses, eyes drawn to the struggling swan. Muttering curses, he clambers down and frees the bird, which hisses before awkwardly flapping away. Defeated, he trudges back home, the failed attempt gnawing at his resolve.

Herald, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown, flings the door open to find two elderly ladies, Eunice and Mabel, smiling serenely, clutching religious pamphlets. "Hello. Have you ever thought of Jehovah?" "No, but come in," Herald sighs, surrendering to their company and the odd comfort of tea and talk about salvation. When they finally leave, he covers his wife’s furniture in plastic, raises a gun—and the doorbell rings yet again.

Linda[/@ch_7], stands panting, one hand on her belly, the other clutching the doorframe.] "Herald, I’m having my baby and Steven is stuck in traffic—can you drive me to the hospital?" Without hesitation, Herald bundles her into his car and speeds through wet streets to the hospital. The waiting room is harshly lit, filled with anxious faces and the antiseptic tang of disinfectant.

Dr. Patel[/@ch_8], his physician, approaches with a sheepish grin.] "Oh, Herald! I was just about to call. We mixed up your files—you’re perfectly healthy, six months or six years, you’re not dying! I need to call the real patient now." Relief floods Herald as Steven rushes to reunite with his wife. Herald leaves the hospital, hope flickering in his eyes. He dials his sons, Maxwell and Simon, his voice trembling with gratitude.

The crowd gasps; time seems to slow as Herald is whisked away. At his funeral, the church overflows with neighbors, friends, and a lone swan that honks mournfully outside, as if paying its respects. Even in death, Herald is surrounded by the community he never realized loved him, their laughter and tears echoing in the pews.