The Collector of Last Words

Hospitals whispered about him — the man in the beige coat who appeared in the halls before certain deaths. No one knew his name, but nurses said he carried a fountain pen and a small notebook that never filled.

He never touched the dying. He just leaned in close as they spoke their last words — then smiled politely and vanished.

One nurse followed him once, tracking him to an abandoned railway station. There, on the walls, thousands of phrases were etched into the stone — all in different handwriting: final words from decades of strangers.

She found her mother’s sentence among them.

The ink was still wet.