The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains, painting soft patterns on the walls of Alliah’s bedroom. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air purifier and the distant chirping of birds outside. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, Alliah was finally home. Her recovery was slow, but each passing day brought a fragile sense of hope.
She lay on her bed, propped up with pillows, her surgical wound carefully bandaged and still tender. Her son, Joshua, was asleep beside her, his small hand resting lightly on her quilt. Alliah traced the outline of his fingers, feeling a mix of love, guilt, and relief. Her body ached, yes, but the real pain she had carried for years—the sorrow, the fear, the betrayal—had begun to soften under the gentle presence of her family and Jamiro.
