The sterile scent of the hospital corridors had become almost familiar to Alliah by now, though her heart still clenched every time she heard the faint echo of wheels rolling across the tiled floor or the distant call for nurses over the intercom. The medical journey had become both a rhythm and a storm in her life—steady, yet unpredictable. After the last therapy, the doctors had hinted at a “small improvement,” words that had lodged themselves in Alliah’s mind like fragile seeds of hope.
But hope, she had learned, was as much a burden as it was a gift.
Jamiro walked beside her, carrying her small bag, though she had insisted she could manage it herself. His grip on the straps was almost possessive, as though letting her carry even that weight might add too much to her already fragile b
