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<\/span><\/a><\/p>\nTwenty minutes before the end of her shift, she was already counting the minutes until she could go home when a sharp voice came through the radio from dispatch: an urgent call, a man is feeling unwell, address \u2014 a mansion in an elite neighborhood. She sighed heavily, but there was no point in arguing. Work is work.<\/p>\n
The ambulance sped through the city. The driver drove confidently while her partner checked the equipment. The woman looked out the window, thinking only that everything would go smoothly, without complications.<\/p>\n
The address turned out to be in an exclusive area. High fences, security, well-kept alleys. They were let in without unnecessary questions. Inside, the house was quiet and excessively luxurious \u2014 marble, expensive furniture, paintings in gilded frames. The nurse and her team climbed the wide staircase to the owner\u2019s bedroom.<\/p>\n
The examination was quick. The blood pressure was high, the condition unstable but not critical. She prescribed medication, explained the recommendations in detail, and was already about to leave when her gaze accidentally caught on one of the walls.<\/p>\n
There hung a large portrait.<\/p>\n
At first, she thought she was simply tired. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Her heart tightened. The portrait depicted her. In a wedding dress, with styled hair and a serious expression. The artist had captured every feature so precisely that there was no doubt.<\/p>\n
The woman felt dizzy. She had never been married, had never posed for portraits, and certainly did not know the owner of this house. She could not understand how something like this was even possible.<\/p>\n