The trouble is, you think you have time, Antiro.

"In a moment," Antiro said, barely glancing up from his workbench. His latest potion simmered, on the brink of unlocking youth itself. Hunger and the outside world held no sway over him now.

Zenaya, his daughter, set a bowl of steaming soup beside him, her kiss a fleeting warmth on his brow. "I'm off to the village," she said, her voice a soft intrusion into his concentration. "For the festivities."

He grunted, his mind chained to his experiments.

"The festivities, Father," Zenaya persisted, her words heavy with the echo of missed moments, "for you."

"That's tonight?" he asked, the realization dawning like a distant storm.

With a sigh, Zenaya donned her cloak. "Be there," she implored before disappearing into the evening.

Her exit was nearly thwarted by Dr. Etaro, his entrance marked by a polite tip of his hat and a concerned gaze.

"Good evening, Zenaya," he greeted, stepping aside as she hurried past.

"Doctor," she replied, pausing. "Remind him, please."

Inside, Dr. Etaro found Antiro ensnared by his quest for immortality.

"Chasing shadows again, Antiro?" Etaro's voice was a mix of humor and concern.

Antiro's grunt was his only reply.

"Antiro," Etaro said, more firmly, "we need to talk."

"I'm close, Etaro," Antiro said, his eyes never leaving his work. "The potion, it's nearly complete."

"Antiro," Etaro interrupted, "you're ill. The tests showed a rare condition. Your time is running out."

Antiro scoffed, denial his first reflex. "I've never felt better."

"The disease won't wait," Etaro pressed, his voice laden with unspoken urgency.

Antiro fell silent, the truth settling in like a heavy cloak. "I know," he admitted, a whisper in the dim light. "I discovered the disease after testing the last batch of potions on myself.

"Then come to the village," Etaro urged, "live the time you have."

Antiro wavered, torn between his life's work and the undeniable truth of Etaro's plea.

More words flew back and forth. Voices raised as the dawn's light approached.

Etaro turned to leave, pausing at the door. "The trouble is, you think you have time, Antiro. You don't."

Alone, Antiro was left to confront the silent witnesses of his obsession—the unfinished potion, the empty chair, the fading light. In the stillness, he pondered the cost of his pursuit, wondering if the true elixir lay not in his flasks but in the fleeting moments of life passing him by.