It was a quiet Monday morning when Sam Forrester sat in the doctor’s office, his hands trembling slightly on the arms of the chair. The pale light filtered through the blinds, casting slatted shadows across the sterile room. The walls, a muted shade of beige, offered no comfort. The doctor, Dr. Hargreaves, a middle-aged man with a well-groomed mustache and an air of quiet professionalism, was seated across from him, flipping through the notes on his clipboard. He had a habit of pausing between words, as though searching for the right way to phrase something delicate.

"Sam," Dr. Hargreaves said at last, his voice soft but direct, "I’m afraid the tests have come back, and the prognosis is not good. You have advanced cancer, and it's spread further than we initially thought. I’m afraid… you’ve only got about three months left."

The words felt surreal as they settled into the room. Sam’s mind buzzed, but his body remained still, as if frozen by the weight of the statement. His first instinct was to laugh, but it caught in his throat. How could it be? Just a few weeks ago, he’d been feeling fine. Sure, there had been a bit of weight loss, the occasional pain in his side, but nothing that suggested this. Three months. It sounded like something out of a movie, something you hear in passing, not something that happens to you.

Dr. Hargreaves leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle. "I know this is a lot to process, Sam. We can discuss your options for palliative care, pain management… but I want to make sure you understand, this is very serious. Time is limited."

Sam nodded slowly, still unsure whether he was hearing the words or just waiting for them to vanish into thin air. He had no history of serious illness—no heart problems, no strokes, no major surgeries. He had lived a relatively quiet life. Seventy-nine years old, and now this.

"Thank you, doctor," he said hoarsely, his voice a strange echo of itself. He stood up, his legs feeling heavier than they should have been. He’d come in here for some routine tests, expecting perhaps a prescription for a cough that wouldn’t go away, not this. He fumbled for his coat, his fingers stiff as he tried to button it up.

Dr. Hargreaves watched him for a moment, then stood too. "If you need to talk, or if you want more information, please don’t hesitate to call. We can make arrangements for a follow-up visit anytime."

Sam barely registered the words. He offered a thin smile, then walked out of the office, down the long corridor, and into the cool morning air outside. He didn’t feel the chill, nor the warmth of the sun. He just felt numb.

At home, the house seemed too quiet. The silence in the living room felt like an intrusion. The house, the place he had shared with his wife Kathleen for so many years, felt smaller now. Her absence was palpable, a presence still in the air that refused to be dismissed. He could almost hear her voice, calling from the kitchen, telling him it was time for tea or asking if he’d like another biscuit.

Kathleen had passed away five years ago, after a long battle with heart disease. He’d cared for her through it all, just as she had cared for him through the good and bad of their marriage. They’d been married for forty-nine years. No children, by choice—a decision they had both made when they were young. The world was too uncertain, too much to navigate. They were enough for each other.

Sam wandered to the living room, sank into his armchair, and stared blankly at the television, which had long since gone silent. His mind drifted, circling back to the doctor’s words. Three months. Three months. The finality of it echoed in his ears.

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whine, and Sam’s thoughts shifted. He busied himself with making tea, the act of it grounding him, a familiar routine he could hold onto. He poured the boiling water into the pot and waited, letting the steam rise into the air. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the small rituals of daily life until now. He hadn’t realized, until this moment, that all of it—his life, his memories—was quickly slipping away.

Over the next few days, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about what Dr. Hargreaves had told him. Three months. He had always known this day might come—everyone did—but knowing it was imminent was something else entirely. He thought about all the years he had spent working at the electronics factory in Shrewsbury, where he had been a respected engineer for over thirty years. He had enjoyed the work, the camaraderie with his colleagues, even if they had all gone their separate ways in retirement. Now, as he sat alone in his house, it felt like a lifetime ago. The factory was long gone, torn down and replaced with a housing development. So much of the world seemed to have changed while he had quietly lived out his days.

He thought about his niece, Lynn, who visited him every week without fail. She was kind and patient, always bringing him something—a new book to read, a homemade cake, or simply company. Sam was very fond of Lynn and he had a huge amount of empathy for her and her husband David, they had wanted a family so much but after three years they were still trying. Sam had never asked her to visit so often, but she did. And he was grateful for it.

Then there was Lynn’s brother, Ian, who lived in Newton Abbot, Devon, and was a GP. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him, though they kept in touch sporadically. Ian was a good man, but their relationship had always been distant. The busy life of a doctor didn’t leave much room for family. Still, Sam was proud of him. Ian had made a career out of helping people, a noble pursuit in a world that often seemed to have forgotten the value of kindness.

But now, none of that seemed to matter. What was the point of reflecting on old relationships and past accomplishments when there was so little time left?

Saturday night arrived. Sam poured himself a beer, his favourite—an old-fashioned bitter. He leaned back in his armchair and reached for the crumpled lottery ticket that had been lying on the table for a week. He never bought tickets regularly, but he had been in the queue at the supermarket and for some reason, he’d decided to buy one. It was a mild impulse, a whim more than anything else. He’d never won anything of consequence before.

As he opened the lottery website, he stared at the screen as the numbers were announced one by one. His heart skipped a beat as the first number matched. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. And finally, the sixth. He stared at the screen, disbelieving.

No way.

It couldn’t be.

Sam checked the numbers again, his hands shaking as he entered the digits on the site once more. He stared, wide-eyed. His ticket had all six numbers.

He picked up the phone with trembling hands and called the National Lottery office. The voice on the other end confirmed what he already knew: he had won £8,585,310.

The number felt alien, out of place in his quiet little life. The world had never been built for people like him—a man who had always kept his head down, content with the small joys of a modest existence. But now… now he was a millionaire.

The irony of it was impossible to ignore. He had only three months to live. What was the point of winning all that money now? It was a cruel joke. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

But as he sat there, beer in hand, staring at the number on the screen, a strange feeling came over him. It wasn’t hope. It wasn’t despair. It was something in between, a sense that, just for once, life had given him something unexpected. Perhaps it was a final gift. Or maybe it was just fate reminding him that even at the end, there were still surprises left in the world.

Sam took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer and settled back in his chair, his eyes on the screen. Three months. He had three months left. What would he do with them?