In a secluded corner of the world, where the Atlantic Ocean beats relentlessly against the jagged cliffs of Newfoundland, lies François. A tiny, outport village in Canada with a population of less than seventy people, it is accessible only by boat and has no roads. Here, nestled in a weathered cottage that smells of salt and pine, the "deceased" Dr. Mild sat in a worn armchair.
Mild took a slow, deliberate sip of his black coffee, the steam fogging his glasses. On the small, flickering screen of an old cathode-ray television, a news anchor was discussing the "tragic disappearance" of a brilliant neurologist. Mild watched his own life being eulogized with a chilling, detached calm.
The fall hadn't been an act of despair; it had been his greatest surgery—a precise incision to remove himself from a cancerous life.
