The early morning rays of the sunlight just peep through the fringes of the old wooden shutters of Nana’s room. Rather a sarcastic and faint kind of light since the world would probably go on turning while Felicia’s condition keeps deteriorating.
Nana has settled herself at the edge of the bed now, clutching Felicia’s frail hand. Pale-skinned, her breaths come in shallow and uneven wisps. There is the blood-spotted cloth near the bed which spells that story which Nana, by no means, wishes to accept-she is losing her.
Felicia stirs and her eyelids lift weakly. “Please my child,” she whispers, her voice quite barely.
“I’m here,” Nana says quickly, leaning closer.
Felicia tries to smile but fails. “Stop… worrying. I’ve lived long enough, I’m already too old. And this is not your fault.”
