After leaving her mother's room that evening, Alina stepped out into the cool night air, clutching her empty coffee cup from the vending machine with trembling hands. She'd booked a cheap hotel near the hospital — just a tiny room with a thin blanket and a window that looked out at flickering streetlights.
She slipped off her shoes at the door, dropped her bag on the old chair, and sat on the squeaky bed. The moment she pulled her knees to her chest, the warmth of that tiny hospital room came rushing back — her mother's soft eyes, her tired smile, the way her hand felt so cold and small.
Her chest squeezed tight. The dam inside her broke, and she pressed her face into her blanket, letting the tears come in hot, quiet waves. For two long hours, she cried alone in that little hotel room — all her hidden fears spilling out: the helplessness, the worry, the fear that time was always running too fast.
