The relief on her face was immediate. And in that moment, I felt something familiar settle inside me—the old instinct to hold her up when everything else started to fall apart.
That afternoon, they took me to the hospital.
The room smelled like antiseptic and fading flowers. Dorothy lay in the bed, motionless, surrounded by machines that hummed softly like distant echoes of life. Her skin looked pale, almost translucent, and there was a faint yellow bruise near her temple.
Lauren handed me schedules, instructions, phone numbers. Ethan thanked me with a voice that was careful, controlled—too careful.
The next morning, I watched them leave in a taxi.
I thought they were just tired. Worn down by stress, by responsibility, by life.
I wanted to believe that.
The following morning, I sat beside Dorothy’s bed, whispering a quiet prayer under my breath. The kind of prayer you say not because you expect an answer—but because silence feels unbearable.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint sound.
A breath that wasn’t mechanical.
I looked up.
Her fingers moved.