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The phone call came just as I was slipping off my shoes, my body still heavy from the day's disappointments. The screen lit up with a name I knew too well,my neighbor, Mrs. Grace.
Her voice trembled through the receiver.
"Child… it's your father. You need to come. Now."
My heart lurched. The bag slid from my hand and thudded onto the floor. I didn't wait to ask questions. I just ran.
The hospital air smelled of antiseptic and something colder, something I couldn't name but felt deep in my chest. My legs carried me faster than my thoughts, until I skidded to a stop at the ward.
Through the glass, I saw him.
My father. My strength. My only family.
But on that bed, with pale skin and frail arms, he looked nothing like the man who had carried me on his shoulders, who had cheered for me even when the world turned its back.
A doctor stood at his side, speaking in low tones to a nurse. I caught only fragments. Words like tumor, spread, late stage. Words I had heard in whispers before but never dared to believe.
"Dad.…" My voice cracked as I stepped closer. His eyes fluttered open at the sound.
For a fleeting moment, his smile returned, the same smile that used to make the world feel safe. He reached out, his hand shaking, and I rushed to hold it. His grip was weak, yet it anchored me more than anything else ever had.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice thin as paper. "I wanted to stay longer… to see you dance."
The tears I had held back all day finally broke free. I shook my head furiously. "Don't say that. You're going to get better. You have to. You promised me, remember?"
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