In the quiet room where shadows grow, Eric sits with thoughts that ebb and flow. Death, a whisper in the still, soft air, A presence felt, but dimly there. Alone, he waits, as minutes crawl, Within these walls where echoes fall. Time unfolds in silent streams, Drowning out his distant dreams. In solitude, the world withdraws, Life suspended, without cause. Yet in this room, a flicker, a gleam— A hope, a sigh, a fleeting dream.