The sterile lights of the hospital corridor hummed above Alliah as she was wheeled back into her room. The latest round of therapy had left her drained—her skin pale, her lips slightly cracked, her eyes heavy—but there was still that faint spark within her gaze that seemed to whisper, I am not done yet. For weeks, her body had endured relentless cycles of testing, treatments, and waiting, each procedure holding out the fragile promise of improvement, yet each day demanding a little more of her strength.
Jamiro was at her side, his hand resting on the guardrail of the bed as though anchoring himself in place. He had not missed a single appointment. He slept in hospital chairs, sometimes standing by the window until the first rays of dawn stretched across the horizon. Yet for all his outwar
