The scent of burning herbs and candle wax filled the dim chamber where Layla’s mother lay, the flickering glow of lanterns casting long shadows against the stone walls. The air was thick with the weight of the past, of unspoken truths and whispered regrets. Layla knelt beside the bed, watching her mother’s frail chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths. For days, she had drifted between consciousness and fevered sleep, the sickness eating away at her like a slow, cruel curse. But tonight, her eyelids fluttered, and with visible effort, her once-bright eyes cracked open.
“Layla,” her mother whispered, her voice thin, like the brittle leaves that scattered the forest floor.
Layla’s breath hitched, and she immediately reached for her mother’s weak, trembling hand. “I’m here, Mother. I
