That can't be right.
He was alive when I left yesterday.
She's wrong. She's got the wrong person, clearly deluded from working the night shift.
“You've got it wrong. He wouldn't die without me.”
He wouldn't.
There's no way that he would leave me without me there. Not when I promised him.
“My dad is alive,” I insist. “It's not time.”
She's lying to me. It's all just a cruel joke.
Why can't I see properly?
Everything in front of me feels warped somehow, like the world has tilted and I can't find my balance in it. The corridor blurs, colours bleeding together, shapes shifting. The only thing that comes clearly is the frantic pounding of my own heart, hammering so hard in my chest it almost hurts.
I know the door is closed.
I can see that much.
But I refuse to believe her. I can't.
My body moves before my mind catches up. I don't hear her behind me—the voice soft, apologetic, saying something I don't understand.
She's mistaken.
I push the door open.
I’m prepared to see him alive. I know he will be confused and tired; he always is. But he will be alive.
Just… alive.
The moment I look at his bed, something inside me freezes solid.
He's lying there.
Perfectly still.
Too still.
My eyes trace over him slowly, like my brain is trying to make sense of what it's seeing. His eyes are closed, his face peaceful in a way that feels wrong. The constant tension thatused to pull at his features—the pain that twisted his mouth and creased his brow—is gone.
He doesn't look like he's hurting anymore.
But he also doesn't look like he's breathing.
No.
No, that's not possible.
He was alive.
The room feels… empty. Dead. Even with the fresh flowers on the windowsill and the pale sunlight slipping through the curtains. It's lifeless.
“Dad,” I whisper.
