The man in the bed lies struggling for breath, people who love him watch him with tears.
They tell themselves that he does not suffer, that he is too deep into narcotic, blissful sleep.
They may be right. The point is that there comes a moment when they stop looking at him, they stop feeling for him, and begin to look and feel for each other, for their own sorrow.
That is the time of death. The only one that matters.