"Good evening, dear listeners. I'm Akreda Amena. I Have Seen is the space where our voices meet, where we loosen what weighs on us. Some of you open your hearts at the microphone; others prefer to write, to crush on paper the memory that burns their soul.
Good evening. You're live on I Have Seen."
"Good evening. Call me Doctor M. That's all. I don't want a name. I don't want a city. I took an oath, and I still respect it. But what I saw has begun to follow me."
"We're listening, Doctor M."
"About two years ago, I had a patient. A man around fifty-five. Nothing remarkable at first glance. Hypertension, some chest pain, nothing acute. The tests came back within normal parameters. No red flags. But he had that look—the kind that passes through you like a sieve. It airs out your soul and leaves you slightly diminished afterward.
At the end of the consultation, he fastened his cufflinks with ritualistic care and said, 'Doctor, don't bother scheduling me for another checkup. I won't make it to that day. Seventy-three hours. That's all I have left.'"
"I smiled. I told him he'd undergone a full examination and nothing indicated such a thing. Tests don't lie."
"Neither do I," he replied.
"He stood up, placed his palm over his heart—that old ceremonial gesture—and left. Later, his wife called."
"He died in his sleep. No sign of suffering. He almost looked like he was smiling."
"I replayed the episode over and over. What struck me most wasn't that he predicted it. It was that he wasn't afraid. It was as if he were waiting for an acquaintance. That's what it felt like.
I remember him in the consultation room, how carefully he adjusted his cufflinks. And the way he looked at me—as if he knew something about me that I hadn't discovered yet."
"Interesting," Akreda Amena said.
"I'm sorry. The story isn't finished.
For the past two years, I hadn't told anyone about it. It didn't strike me as sensational. One night I was walking without direction, just to unwind—a habit I use to put my thoughts in order.
Cold lights. Rushed people. The distant wail of a siren, as ordinary as the subterranean hum of the subway. It was close to midnight, and the city was still gasping in its familiar way. Late-night restaurants, groups of young people laughing on sidewalks, yellow taxis crossing intersections like advertisements for a perpetual motion machine.
I stopped in front of the window of a teahouse that had recently opened between two abandoned buildings. I didn't remember seeing it there before. The light inside was warm. At one of the tables sat a man with his back to the door. Relaxed shoulders. Head slightly bowed. His hands busy fastening cufflinks on a shirt.
When I touched the doorknob, the light inside the teahouse went out completely. As if someone had cut the power. Through the glass, nothing could be seen anymore.
I took a step back. Looking closer, I realized the teahouse had no sign outside. No name. No notice. Nothing."
Doctor M. coughed, cleared his throat, and after a brief pause, continued.
"The hospital was quiet at six in the morning. Only a few nurses preparing for the day. On my desk, I found a medical file. No name on the cover. Just the number 73, handwritten.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it, a crude graph drawn in blue ink. A rising line, then a sudden drop, marked with an asterisk. Beneath the graph, a short sentence: 'Neither do I lie.'
On the back of the page, it read: 'Seventy-three hours. That's all.'
I'm going to hang up now. I have fifty minutes left. Thank you for your time. It was an honor to speak to you. All the best."
"Harriet, physics teacher, you're on."
"Good evening. The story refers to fate and free will. Despite all the rigor governed by science, there exists a cosmic timer we cannot control. In short, we've heard a subtle acceptance of the limits of human knowledge."
"Nikos, auto mechanic, you're live."
"The doctor was exposed to an extreme form of physical and psychological exhaustion. The story is an elevated justification of professional guilt. If I'm not mistaken, it's called malpractice. He lost a patient under inexplicable circumstances. The human brain can generate incredibly complex scenarios.
I have just one question. What the hell is a ghost teahouse?"
"This was tonight's broadcast. Akreda Amena wishes you all well."