GINA’S POV
A week had slipped through my fingers like sand—like quicksand—and now here we were again, Bernard and I, back in the suffocating silence of the hospital. The air reeked of antiseptic and something deeper, something sadder—like the ghost of too many whispered prayers and unanswered hopes. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the too-clean floors and the too-quiet hallways.
Bernard’s small hand was wrapped tightly in mine, his fingers cold despite the warmth of the building. He didn’t complain, though. He never did. Not when the IV needles pricked his skin, not when the machines beeped like impatient alarms beside his bed. My brave, beautiful boy.
"Do you think today we’ll find someone, Mama?" he asked, his voice soft but hopeful, his big brown e
