The hospital room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the steady rhythm of Alliah’s breathing. The white walls seemed to echo her silence, as if the space itself was holding its breath with her. Outside the window, faint morning light pressed through the curtains, soft and golden, a fragile promise that another day had come.
Alliah sat upright in bed, her hands folded on her lap, fingers weaving and unweaving as though searching for something to hold onto. Her stomach ached with the familiar pangs that had haunted her for months now, but what troubled her most was not the pain itself, but the uncertainty. It was the waiting, the endless procession of tests, the sharp needles, the cold machines, and the long hours spent trying not to wonder what the doctors would
