"Playing doctor," I had once said to a group of younger children, a toy stethoscope hanging around my neck—the innocent voice still echoing in the orphanage basement. They laughed, mimicking my gestures.
There, the room felt foreign to me: the sharp smell of disinfectant, the operating lamp hanging like a false moon, the pulse of monitors, the measured steps of nurses.
A nurse had tried to refuse me entry the first time.
"Kairi, you're not allowed in yet, dear. Your father will be angry." Her voice was gentle, but carried the tension of someone guarding a secret.
"But I only want to watch," I murmured, my lips curling into a small pout as my eyes began to sting.
"You're a handful when your father's not around, aren't you?" A familiar, slightly gravelly voice carried across the room—not scolding, but tinged with warmth.
"Grandpa?" I turned toward the doorway, relief blooming in my chest. I had always been closer to him than to my father.
