Scenario:A sweet, comfortable story with an unique atmosphere about a girl who is eighteen years old and an catholic priest who is visiting an hospital in which that girl is because of hers incurable illness. The girls name is Natalia and the priest's name is Łukasz. The priest is visiting everyday everyone who is in the hospital with any sickness and wants to talk with him, confess or anything else. Natalia wants to create a special bond between him and her.
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A sweet, comfortable story with an unique atmosphere about a girl who is eighteen years old and an catholic priest who is visiting an hospital in which that girl is because of hers incurable illness. The girls name is Natalia and the priest's name is Łukasz. The priest is visiting everyday everyone who is in the hospital with any sickness and wants to talk with him, confess or anything else. Natalia wants to create a special bond between him and her.
Natalia
She is a girl with a terminal illness, spending her last days in a hospital. She is introspective, hopeful, and lonely. Natalia learns that a young priest named Łukasz is visiting the hospital daily, seeking out the sick to offer comfort. Determined to capture his attention, she arranges to be taken to the hospital even when she doesn't need it, hoping to meet him and create a connection.
Dr. Zosia
She is a compassionate doctor working at the hospital where Natalia is admitted. She is understanding, supportive, and gentle. Dr. Zosia cares for Natalia's wellbeing beyond medical treatment, recognizing her emotional struggles. She assists Natalia in her attempts to meet Priest Łukasz by arranging her visits to the hospital even when not necessary. Her relationship with Natalia is built on trust and empathy.
Father Jakub
He is an older priest who works with Priest Łukasz in the parish. He is encouraging, supportive, and wise. Father Jakub learns about Łukasz's daily hospital visits from Natalia's brother and offers to help facilitate these acts of kindness. His relationship with Łukasz showcases his dedication to spreading joy and hope among the sick, further deepening their spiritual bond.
I was eighteen years old when I found out that my illness was incurable.
The day the doctor told me about it, I didn't cry.
Nor did I get depressed, or angry with God, or scream at the people around me.
I only felt a deep sadness in my heart, as if the last ray of hope had died there.
It was a strange feeling, hard to explain.
Imagine a big ball of wool: you keep unwinding the thread, and the ball gets smaller and smaller.
That's how I felt: smaller and smaller, thinner and more fragile, until almost nothing was left of me.
The doctor's words were like a cold wind that blew the last bits of hope right out of me.
No more treatments, no more hospital stays, no more medicine.
Nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable outcome.
I knew that I was dying, just like that: dying.
I didn't know how much time I had left—weeks, months, maybe a year or two?
Not enough to make plans for the future or build any relationships.
I sit alone in the hospital room, watching the dust particles dance in the sunbeam that comes through the window.
The afternoon is quiet, broken only by the steady beep of the monitors and the distant sound of footsteps in the hallway.
My hands fidget with the thin hospital blanket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles.
A nurse passes by, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor.
She glances in but doesn't enter.
The weight of my diagnosis presses down on my chest, making each breath feel heavy.
Through the open door, I hear the soft murmur of voices—other patients talking to their visitors.
The loneliness creeps in, overwhelming me.
Through my half-closed door, I notice a young man in a black cassock moving from room to room.
The nurses greet him with a smile and a nod.
This must be the priest everyone talks about.
I straighten my blanket and smooth my hair, watching him draw closer.
He pauses at my doorway, knocking gently on the frame.
"May I come in?" he asks in a soft voice.
I nod, studying his kind face as he enters.
He pulls up a chair beside my bed and introduces himself as Father Łukasz.
His presence fills the room differently than that of doctors or nurses—less clinical, more human.
As he begins to speak, I realize that perhaps I am not as alone as I thought.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I watch Father Łukasz pull up the plastic chair.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the linoleum floor as he settles in, his black cassock rustling softly.
My fingers twist the edge of my blanket, a nervous habit that has become more pronounced since the diagnosis.
I struggle to find the words to express the thoughts that have haunted me since the doctor's revelation.
Father Łukasz waits patiently, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes filled with understanding.
When I finally speak, my voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"I'm scared," I admit, my words hanging in the air like fragile glass.
"Scared of dying alone."
Father Łukasz leans forward slightly, his expression open and attentive.
He doesn't interrupt or offer empty reassurances; he simply listens as I pour out my fears and doubts.
"I can't shake this feeling of uncertainty," I continue, my voice trembling.
"It's like living in a constant state of limbo, never knowing what tomorrow will bring."
