By the time Stephanie reached the hospital, her legs ached from pacing. Her breath came in short bursts, sharp and shallow, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe somewhere between the taxi ride and the emergency doors. The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to her throat, burning like guilt. Nurses, patients, and stretchers drifted past her in practiced chaos, all swallowed by the same fluorescent hum of machines and muffled conversation.
The world inside a hospital was too bright to feel safe.
She sat in the waiting room for what felt like hours, gripping her grandmother's handbag to her chest like a lifeline. The leather was soft from years of use, smelling faintly of lavender and home. Every time the automatic doors hissed open, her head jerked up, heart leaping with a hope she didn't want to name.
But no one called her name.
