"I'm sorry, Mr. Paul, but you won't be able to wield a bow again."
Those words, delivered with clinical detachment, struck Paul like a dagger through armour, shattering the delicate barricade of hope he had so carefully constructed.
Though he had anticipated disappointment, the revelation felt akin to teetering on the precipice of an abyss, uncertain whether a sudden push or a freefall awaited him.
Clutching the cold armrests of the sterile chair, his knuckles blanched with tension. The room, once a neutral space, now seemed to contract, its confines closing in as if intent on suffocating him.
A tightness gripped his throat until, barely audible, he managed to ask, "What do you mean?" The query, suspended between disbelief and desperate yearning, betrayed his inner turmoil.
The physician's eyes, softened by pity yet resolute, remained distant as he indicated the scan displayed on the adjacent monitor.
