The hospital corridor was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that carried both comfort and heaviness. Alliah sat in her wheelchair, a soft shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the small square of sunlight spilling through the window at the far end of the hall. She had grown to love those pockets of light, as if God was letting her know—without words—that she was still being held, still being watched over.
Jamiro walked beside her, his hand never leaving hers. He had insisted on pushing her wheelchair himself, even when orderlies offered to help. There was something in the act, in the gentle rhythm of guiding her forward, that grounded him. It reminded him that this was not just a medical journey, not just another treatment—they were walking this path together, as they
