The morning light crept gently through the hospital blinds, scattering thin slivers of gold across the sheets where Alliah lay. Her breathing was slow, measured, each inhaling a reminder of fragility, each exhaling a fragile prayer that clung to the quiet room. Jamiro hadn’t left her side through the night. His head had rested near her hand, the weight of exhaustion pressing against him, but he never allowed himself to fully drift. Fear had made him hyper-attentive, attuned to every rustle of fabric, every shallow catch in her breathing.
Apple sat curled in the corner chair, a blanket draped across her shoulders. Sleep hadn’t come easily for her either. She’d listened to the rhythmic beeping of the monitors, to the rise and fall of her mother’s chest, and wondered how many mornings they’d
