The Hyggelig Journey

Exhausted. That was the abiding sentiment as I closed the final patient file of the day. My hand brushed against my bag with the air of a man signing his own eviction, and I set off, making my way out of the consulting room. I trudged forward as though bearing my own coffin, lost in thought. The day had been fruitful. Those who arrived in pain departed unburdened, and those who had lost their sense of purpose returned home as if waving to the sea — only to find the sea waving back. And yet, why was I so utterly spent? Perhaps my hands ached, robbing me of action. Perhaps I granted myself the right to claim the prize — the heavy trophy — of one who had made a difference. But none of it truly mattered. Sometimes, weariness alone suffices — a quiet reminder of life passing by. After all, every mark left upon the world carves its consequence into the skin.

The patient entered with a sigh, shaking his head. It had been a difficult day — nothing had gone to plan, which, in all fairness, seemed to be exactly the kind of plan the day had in mind. Expectations had fallen like dominoes, except that dominoes at least fall in an orderly fashion. His pulse flickered between breaths, rapid but uncertain, as if caught between deciding whether to panic or simply give up and take a nap. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, its rhythm filling the room, steady and indifferent, the perfect background score for existential crises everywhere. The consulting room, usually a space of quiet refuge, felt different today, as though the storm had followed him inside. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked clothes and the unspoken weight of things not quite said. The rain drummed against the window, tracing long streaks on the glass, as if jotting down notes on the conversation yet to unfold. He sat down heavily, his body sagging into th...