Request to Brod
In the quiet room of Hugo Hoffmann's sanatorium just outside Vienna, you lay on a narrow bed, your breaths shallow and laboured. Tuberculosis has claimed your vitality almost entirely, but you are left with a fear more haunting than the coughs that echo through the sterile walls—the fear of death with unfinished tales. Your bony fingers clutch a quivering pen as you begin to write a letter to your dearest friend, Brod. The harsh scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, contrasting with the warmth of the fading sunlight seeping through the small window.
"My dear Brod," the ink trembles on the page, "as my final days approach, a spectre looms over me, whispering doubts about the legacy I leave behind. I find myself haunted by the fragments of stories that dance around my sickbed, incomplete and untamed." While Brod is your most trusted friend, do you truly wish for your legacy to be unleashed upon a world you will never see?
