She reached for her phone with trembling hands and called emergency services, struggling to explain through sobs. She ran through the house, searching for water, for help, for anything that might save me. Then she came back and held my hand, her grip firm despite her fear.
Her voice softened as she spoke, as if she believed I could still hear her.
“If only you knew how much your kindness meant to me,” she said quietly. “You never spoke down to me. You never treated me like I was invisible. I know you probably never noticed, but it mattered.”
My heart began to race, not because of the pretense, but because of the truth in her words. I could not continue. I opened my eyes.
She screamed softly and stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth. Shock froze her in place, and then embarrassment rushed in, coloring her face as she stood abruptly and turned away.
“You are alive,” she said breathlessly. “You are alive.”
She moved quickly toward the kitchen, clearly overwhelmed, and I followed, calling her name.
“Lena, wait. Please.”
She stood by the refrigerator, one hand pressed to her chest, struggling to breathe evenly.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I should never have done that.”