The room was silent when it happened.
No beeping alarms. No flashing lights.
Only the soft whoosh of the ventilator and the whisper of linen as Ada adjusted Sarah's blanket.
“She's peaceful today," Ada said quietly to the nurse. “Too peaceful."
The nurse glanced at the monitor.
Then froze.
“Doctor!" she called. “Code—possible disconnect!"
The doctor rushed in.
“No—" Ada whispered, already backing away from the bed. “No, no…"
The machines still blinked, but something had shifted.
A pulse… but hollow.
A heartbeat… but drifting.
A soul… beginning to slip.
**
Outside the room, Raymond paced, eyes red-rimmed from another sleepless night.
Michael sat against the hallway wall, staring at the floor. He held the same notebook paper from days ago—creased, smudged, but unread.
Helena
