The first thing I saw when I woke up was the water-stained ceiling.
The air was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant.
I glanced at the clock on the wall.
Six hours until I died.
“Clara? Clara, honey, can you hear me?”
A voice, both familiar and distant, pulled me back from the darkness.
I struggled to turn my head, my gaze falling on a face I never thought I’d see again.
It was my mom.
She looked travel-worn, her eyes red-rimmed as she clutched my icy hand.
My parents divorced when I was young. Mom was a brilliant scientist, and a top-secret project had taken her away—for what felt like an eternity.
She wanted to take me with her.
But on the day she was supposed to leave, my dad and brother clung to me, crying and begging me not to go, insisting our family couldn’t survive without me.
My heart broke for them, so I chose to stay.
From that day on, the thought of my mom was a hollow ache in my chest—a constant, painful longing.
She was the only person in the world who had ever truly loved me.
I knew I shouldn’t have pulled her away from such a critical phase of her work, but I had no one else left.
“Damn it, Clara! How could you let this happen?”
Mom’s voice trembled, raw with a rage that felt hot enough to scald. “That bastard Zane, and your clueless father and brother! How could they let this happen to you?”
“Weren’t you two always posting your perfect life on Instagram? And now the doctor is telling me you’re dying? What the hell is going on?”
I blinked weakly, a wave of profound sadness washing over me. She was right. I stayed for them, and they led me straight to hell.
My throat was too raw to make a sound. With all the strength I could muster, I flicked my eyes toward the nightstand.
Mom understood immediately. She opened my purse and, after a moment of searching, pulled out the legal documents.
Her face turned to stone as she scanned the pages. Carefully, she put them away, the sorrow in her eyes a storm threatening to break.
Three hours left.
