Nurses surrounded a bed draped in blue blankets, carefully adjusting a hot-water bag, preparing an injection, keeping Jordan steady. He sat there, adrift in a fog of forgetfulness, his eyes empty of recognition, unaware of why he was there, or even where he belonged. Kimberly lingered in the doorway, in that silent position she had assumed countless times—a position heavy with grief, almost tangible, as if the very air around her folded with sorrow.
When the nurses finally departed, Kimberly exhaled, releasing a ball of disappointment that seemed to uncoil from her chest, her heart threatening to slip away as though her pancreas wrapped itself in its own skin, curling inward with helplessness. She dragged a chair close to the bed and sat, staring at the fragile form before her, a body unraveling beneath her gaze.
"Get me out of here..." Jordan murmured, his voice raw and pleading. Kimberly remained silent, but gradually, tears began to escape. "Get me out of here... get me... get me... I don't want to be here... where is my home?"
Kimberly pressed her fist to one eye, elbow resting on the side of the blankets, finally surrendering to grief. Her sobs mingled with his questions, reverberating through the sterile room like echoes of a world that had lost its color.
Elsewhere, Martha listened to the cries, her mind absorbed by the images of Iris's radiographs. She traced every muscle, every translucent bone beneath the black-draped body, aligning details like a painter piecing together a fragmented masterpiece. Her eyes caught a small fissure at the crown of the skull, almost imperceptible, and with a black marker snatched from a drawer, she circled it carefully. "Memory loss... brain damage... or maybe nothing... but pain, certainly..." she whispered to herself, drawing an arrow beside the circle to mark the silent trauma. The marker went back into its drawer as she stood, carrying the photos.
Passing Kimberly still bent in sorrow, Martha heard the soft voice from the bed. "Stop crying, woman... I don't even know your name..." Jordan's words floated faintly through the room, and Martha felt her pulse quicken with each step past that space of despair.
Martha entered the room of the young woman barely over twenty-five. Iris lay in repose, untouched, as though she had never brushed against the red laser of the radiographs, nor met the green gaze of Martha's eyes, piercing and luminous in their scrutiny. The lavender flowers on the bedside table perfumed the air with a quiet elegance. Martha carefully brushed aside a few strands of hair, examining Iris's head. There it was: the wound, subtle but undeniable.
From a drawer in the bedside table, Martha retrieved a bottle of alcohol and a box of cotton swabs. She soaked one and gently applied it to the wound, lifting the hair just enough to see clearly. This ritual was also her way of testing whether Iris's nerves still responded, even if her heart seemed elsewhere. A shiver traveled across Iris's skin, a faint sting felt in a mere millisecond. Martha's gaze lingered on her patient, serious and unwavering, before discarding the cotton into the bin and tucking away the alcohol. She left the radiographs by the lavender, silent witnesses to pain and care entwined.
Edwards awoke with the sun creeping slowly across the horizon, painting the room in gentle strokes of amber and gold. He rose from his bed with deliberate care, the weight of yesterday's discoveries still pressing on his shoulders. His hand instinctively reached for the beige portfolio he had retrieved from Iris's house, the leather strap warm under his fingers.
He glanced toward the room he had given to Sarah. There she slept, small and untroubled, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The digital clock beside her bed blinked 7:34, a quiet reminder that life, indifferent to sorrow, marched forward.
Edwards moved toward the door, hesitating for a heartbeat. Before he could close it completely, Martha appeared beside him, her presence a calm yet resolute anchor.
"I need to talk to you," she said softly.
He paused, surveying the quiet house one last time, then closed the door slowly, the faint click echoing like the closure of an unseen chapter. The small portfolio hung from his arm, a fragile thread linking him to truths he had yet to fully grasp.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice even but edged with curiosity.
Martha's eyes met his, calm but unyielding. "I've already left the lab results. Did you look at them?"
Edwards nodded.
She walked a few steps, leaning against the wall, a momentary silhouette of composure in the quiet light. Edwards remained still, studying her. She exhaled slowly, a breath heavy with unspoken burdens.
"Jordan has CJD," she said, her voice measured, carrying the weight of inevitability. "We detected it two days ago. He's in the hospital, room 276. We placed him deliberately near room 278... Kimberly..." Her voice faltered, though she steadied it quickly. "Her tears echo louder than any beeping machine in that hallway. You know how hard it is for me to pass by without feeling my lungs collapse, nearly suffocating?"
Edwards absorbed the words, the information sinking into his mind like stones into still water. Martha regarded him, her face open, weary yet resolute, as if inviting him to shoulder the gravity of the truth.
His eyes drifted to the small portfolio. "Is that... from the little girl?"
"No... it's Iris's," Edwards replied, his voice low. "I went to the crime scene. Inside, there were personal items... nail files, little trinkets... even a note from her father. Still sealed, but I managed to open it..." He trailed off, both of them lost in the silence that only thoughtful minds can share.
"How much time does he have?" Edwards asked finally, his tone soft but deliberate.
"Just a few weeks, at most," Martha said, voice tight with controlled sorrow. "According to the clinic, he's been like this almost a year already. Cases like this... they rarely last longer."
Edwards stared at the portfolio for a long moment, letting his mind drift. The beige leather seemed to shimmer, subtly shifting in his thoughts to a soft, tender pink—an echo of hope, fragile and fleeting.
"I can... try to make him remember something before the end," he murmured.
Martha glanced sideways at the small portfolio, the edge of her lips lifting in faint acknowledgment. "Try," she said. "Give him... a good ending."
The air between them held the weight of unspoken promises, the fragile thread of luminescence flickering quietly in a world darkened by inevitability.
Before leaving, Edwards turned once more toward Martha. She stood there, her composure unraveling thread by thread, as though the weight of every body, every story, every memory of pain had been stacked upon her shoulders.
"You should have someone with you," Edwards said quietly, his voice steady yet laced with something deeper. "Someone who can make you... relax, if only for a moment."
Martha offered a smile—fragile, fleeting, like glass catching the last ray of a dying sun. Edwards lingered for the briefest heartbeat, then stepped away, letting the distance between them stretch like an inevitable shadow.
The streets outside were unkind, worn down by time and silence. Trash clung to the edges of the sidewalks, whispers of a city that had long since forgotten its own beauty. A ball, once bright and full of life, rolled lazily across the uneven pavement. The wind nudged it toward the gutter, where it came to rest beside a storm drain. There it sat, hollow and abandoned, mirroring the loneliness in Edwards's gait as he walked forward, the small portfolio swinging gently from his hand.
The hospital rose in front of him, cold and indifferent, a monolith of glass and concrete. Its walls seemed to hum with the echoes of countless sighs, the invisible grief of strangers who had passed through its sterile halls. Edwards entered, his steps purposeful, guided by memory more than by thought.
He moved through the corridors, and faintly, in the distance, he heard it—the rhythmic beeping of a machine. Room 278. Iris. The sound lingered in the air like a lighthouse in fog, pulsing, fragile, reminding him of life clinging stubbornly to the edge. He walked past it, but his mind could not ignore it; the echoes followed him, even as he reached Room 276.
Inside, Jordan lay in his bed, a man hollowed by disease and forgetfulness, his face marked by the cruel erosion of memory. His eyes flickered sideways, catching Edwards in the corner of his blurred awareness. Recognition was a ghost—sometimes near, sometimes gone.
Edwards stepped closer, placing the portfolio gently on the bedside table. He did not unwrap it, nor explain. His words were simple, pared down like bones stripped of flesh.
"It's your daughter's," he said.
For a brief moment, something flickered in Jordan's gaze, like a candle fighting against the wind, a reminder of the man he once was. But the light was fleeting.
"It's a lonely day, isn't it?" Jordan said... looking at the ceiling like the sky.
Edwards did not linger to watch it fade. He turned, and without another word, left the room, leaving the silence and the weight of memory behind him.
The day center gleamed beneath a blinding sun, its light scattering across polished windows and tiled floors as though trying to soften the gravity of the place. Raphael and his three companions thanked a caretaker while she wheeled an elderly woman into the middle of the cafeteria. Miriam—mother of Richardson—sat with a quiet unease, her hands trembling slightly as if holding on to fragments of a world that was slipping from her grasp. She did not know the men, not truly, but something inside her told her it was better to trust them than the smiling nurse who had guided her forward.
Raphael, ever deliberate, drew a chair close to her side. With a subtle gesture, he silenced the other three. His voice was calm, measured, yet carrying the weight of something unsaid.
"So, you are Mrs. Miriam, am I correct?"
Her eyes, clouded yet still searching, met his. "That's right. You want to know something about my son? I suppose you've heard... he had his troubles with that woman. What was her name?"
Raphael paused, as if handling glass. "Iris. Mrs. Iris."
"Yes... that's it. Such a sweet girl. A shame, really, that my son doesn't understand the goodness he's been given. He'd rather drown it in wine bottles. That young lady came to visit me here, you know. She even paid for this place for a couple of months while my son tried to find a new job."
"Your son was unemployed?" Raphael asked, leaning in with quiet curiosity.
"He was. That's when the drinking began. And when he found no work, it only worsened. Iris stopped paying for this center some days ago. I was told someone else would have to cover it. Though frankly, I never understood why my son placed me in a private home like this, so costly, instead of sending me to St. Alleys, the public one."
"Perhaps," Raphael said gently, "because he didn't want you to suffer. Perhaps he trusted this place more."
She gave a small, bitter laugh. "No. I can defend myself. He's the fool. If only he'd leave that cursed drink behind..." Her voice faltered, and then sharpened. "Do you know what happened to Iris? Do you know her?"
Raphael's answer was a slow exhale. "We do. She's in the hospital. Your son... he threw her down the stairs with a bottle in his hand."
Miriam froze. Her face collapsed into disbelief, her lips trembling open but no words coming forth. Finally, she whispered, "No... it cannot be. That's why he hasn't been paying... God. That girl still remembered me, and now... now she cannot."
Raphael leaned closer, his tone firm but compassionate. "Mrs. Miriam, we need to know where Richardson is. Has he visited you? Do you know where he's been staying?"
Her eyes, weary but shrewd, narrowed. "Why do you want to know where my son is?" She was sharper than she appeared, nearly eighty but far from naïve.
Raphael hesitated, then shifted. "When did you have Richardson?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "What does that matter? Are you trying to trick me?" she said finally, with the hint of a smile. "I had him in my late forties. His father died a few years ago... because of him. Although, truthfully, it was an accident." Her voice broke. "He never meant it. He's no mind for malice. Just... no mind at all."
A nurse approached with a handkerchief, placing it gently in Miriam's hand. "Mrs. Miriam, please. Calm yourself. It's all right."
"Thank you, dear," Miriam murmured, dabbing her tears.
The nurse's eyes shifted, suspicious. "Mrs. Miriam, do you know these men?"
Before Raphael could answer, Miriam spoke swiftly, her wit glimmering like a final act of defiance. "Of course I do. He was at one of my son's birthdays." It was a lie, smooth and protective, and Raphael understood her choice.
The nurse withdrew, though wariness lingered in her glance. Miriam continued, her voice softening with memory. "Richardson hasn't visited me in almost two weeks. He said he'd bring me a pastry. He came with Iris... and my granddaughter. What was her name? Sarah, I think. Such an innocent child, a pure heart. You must meet her one day."
Raphael's lips curved slightly, though his eyes remained calculating.
One of his men, Tommy, sidled closer to the young, blonde caretaker. "You're very pretty," he whispered with a crooked grin.
The woman stiffened, her composure cracking only slightly. "Sir, if you don't behave, you'll have to leave."
"Tommy..." Raphael's voice cut the air. "Leave her."
Reluctantly, Tommy retreated, blowing an invisible kiss, his fingers brushing his lips with a bravado as shallow as it was cruel. The caretaker looked away, pretending not to see.
Miriam sighed. "What I did notice is that Iris and Richardson came in separately. Richardson first, then Iris with my granddaughter. But if he did what you say... I fear he's fled the city. He always runs when he commits an atrocity."
Raphael's voice deepened. "Madam, your son abandoned his daughter entirely. A friend of Iris is caring for her now. We need to know where he might be. Perhaps in your old house?"
"He sold that house," Miriam spat bitterly. "Gambled the money away. Then drank the rest. That idiot. He never thinks."
Raphael saw she would say no more. He rose, adjusting his coat. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Mrs. Miriam. If you remember anything, please call me." He placed a small slip of paper with his number on the table beside her.
As he turned to leave, Miriam called softly, "What's your name, soldier?"
Raphael paused, half-shadow, half-light. "Raphael. Rafa, to my friends." Then he walked away.
Behind him, Tommy lingered, reaching to touch the caretaker's waist as she bent to retrieve a board game. She startled, pulling back with indignation. Miriam, wheeled away by another nurse, whispered with amused disbelief: "Every day they introduce me to stranger men than the last."
"Indeed, Mrs. Miriam," the nurse replied quietly, shaking her head.
Outside, the sun blazed against the manicured lawns of the wealthy. Raphael spun on Tommy, fury in his stance.
"How many times must I tell you to keep your filthy hands to yourself, you little bastard?"
"What? I didn't do anything—"
"You touched her. You almost ruined everything. You always do. Always preying on the weakest. You disgust me. Keep your damned hands for yourself—or for the whores you pay in your own damn house. But not here. Not in a place where the air smells of age and fragility, where every touch must mean comfort, not violation." Raphael's voice was sharp as broken glass. "If you were my son, I'd have cast you out with nothing but bills, a dog, and a passport out of this country. Understand this, Tommy: in this business, women are not conquered with hands and arrogance. They are earned, with respect. With honor."
The words hung heavy in the air. Although Tommy didn't care too much.
The four men climbed into the black SUV, its dark frame slicing against the kaleidoscope of flowers and laughter around the center. The vehicle pulled away, a shadow against a place too bright, too fragile, too full of unspoken truths.
Then, in the hushed stillness of his living room, Edwards knelt on the worn sofa, his hands gently working to slip the small boots from Sarah's feet. Her legs, light as fragile branches bending toward him, trembled ever so slightly, though her voice carried a grace that outshone her years.
"I finally wanted to see the sky," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with gratitude. "Thank you, Mister Edwards."
A faint smile crossed his lips, softened by admiration for the child's quiet strength. "You needn't thank me. Children deserve to feel the comfort of the breeze, the sky's embrace... it reminds us we're alive."
Sarah tilted her head, her gaze turning heavy with thought. "Sometimes... when I feel like I'm in the dark, I feel vulnerable. Is that normal?"
Edwards paused, studying her as though her question carried the weight of centuries. "Yes, little one. It's normal at your age... darkness frightens us all. The secret is to search for the light."
Her voice faltered, as fragile as a candle flickering in the wind. "But what if there is no light?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but before the words could escape, he caught the delicate shimmer of a tear slipping down her cheek. The sight weakened him—her fragility, her innocence, her quiet despair. He leaned closer, his voice softening like a prayer.
"Hey now... what's this? Didn't you say you were happy to go outside?"
Sarah sniffled, her lips trembling. "I miss my mother..."
Edwards' chest ached as though pressed by invisible hands. He nodded slowly, sympathy radiating from him, and though he wished to remain composed, the child's pain unraveled something deep within him. He could no longer hide behind silence.
"Tomorrow," he said firmly, "we'll go visit her. Does that sound good? Your grandfather is resting beside her... maybe even your grandmother will be there. We can visit all three."
At once, Sarah's tears vanished as though washed away by a sudden sunbeam. Hope and determination bloomed on her face. "Really? Thank you, Mister Edwards!" She threw her arms around him in a gentle embrace, her tiny body folding against him like the petals of a rose seeking warmth.
"Easy now," he murmured, brushing her back softly. "Climb back up—I haven't finished with the other shoe."
With obedience rare for her age, Sarah climbed back onto the sofa, letting him untie the stubborn laces. She giggled faintly, though her voice carried an ache of remembrance. "My mother used to do it faster..."
"I know," Edwards said softly, eyes fixed on the small boot in his hand. "But I'm not your mother."
Sarah stilled, her small mind whirring in silence. Edwards placed the boot at the edge of the sofa and turned toward her, his voice trembling with something he could no longer suppress.
"Your mother spoke of you often... with me. She said you were the one who gave her strength when I was a shell."
The confession caught him off guard. He sighed, his smile weak, and shook his head as if ashamed of his own fragility. "I don't quite see it that way, little one... but perhaps she was right."
Sarah leaned closer, her wide eyes shimmering with something between innocence and defiance. "Then let's not just be friends. You can be my new father."
Her words landed like a stone cast into the still waters of his heart. Edwards froze, his breath caught. He wanted to shelter her, protect her, but he also knew the brutal truth; that wounds as deep as hers could not be mended in a single day.
"That isn't how life works, my dear," he said gently. "Things like that don't happen overnight. For now... let me just be your friend. You already have a father..."
"I don't want that father," Sarah burst out, her small feet pounding against the sofa in angry rhythm. "He hurt my mom! I want a new one!"
Her fury was both heartbreaking and holy, a child's instinctive rebellion against injustice. Edwards closed his eyes, swallowing the ache. He reached for her hand, his tone grave yet tender.
"Then... let me be something else. Not a father, not a friend—your protector. Your guardian angel. And you will be my little rose... you will bloom under my care, and I will shield you, always."
Sarah repeated the phrase, her lips curving as though savoring the taste of hope. "...Little rose..."
"Yes," Edwards whispered, his voice breaking. "My little rose."
Joy, golden and unbreakable, returned to Sarah's face. She wrapped her arms around him again, her embrace fierce, radiant with the purity of childhood.
"You'll be the best protector in the world!" she declared.
And in that moment, as Edwards held her tighter than he thought possible, he realized the truth: perhaps it wasn't he who was saving her. Perhaps she was saving him, pulling him out of the shadows with the fragile strength only a child could wield.
The corridors of the hospital echoed with Kimberly's hurried footsteps, her breath ragged as though the very walls sought to slow her down. Panic carried her forward—toward room 276, toward her husband Jordan. But just as she was about to push through the door, Martha emerged, blocking her path with a firm hand pressed against her arm.
"Mrs. Kimberly... Mrs. Kimberly, wait!" Martha's voice was steady but urgent, her posture unyielding. Kimberly struggled against her grip, desperation twisting her movements.
"Let me go! I need to see my husband!"
Martha's hands tightened, her own pulse betraying the calmness of her tone. "Please, just a moment—I need to speak with you first."
Kimberly froze, trembling, her voice sharp and frantic. "What happened to him? What do you mean... an attack? What kind of attack?"
Martha's gaze flickered, her words measured yet heavy. "It seems your husband suffered a myocardial infarction. When a beige bag was brought into his room, something... shifted in him. We believe it triggered the attack. He's stable for now, but growing weaker. If you go in there, you must understand—anything could happen. And you must be ready for the worst."
Kimberly's eyes darted toward the bag in Martha's hands, her breath catching in her throat. "A beige bag? Let me see it."
Martha hesitated, then slowly extended the object. Kimberly's trembling fingers brushed against it, her heart thundering in recognition.
"This... this belongs to my daughter. To Iris. She bought it with her father, years ago... Does this mean—has she woken up?"
Her voice cracked with hope and terror. Without waiting for an answer, she took a step down the hall, toward room 278 where her daughter lay in coma.
"No—stop!" Martha's voice rose, firm with authority. "Mrs. Kimberly, for God's sake, listen to me."
Kimberly halted mid-step, her eyes blazing with tears. Martha's words were sharp, deliberate.
"Iris is still in her coma. And your husband... he has worsened. Take the bag if you must, but keep it away from Jordan. Whatever memories it stirs in him, they could kill him."
Kimberly's voice broke into sobs as she clutched the bag to her chest. "But if he saw this, maybe he'd remember... maybe he'd recall her. He bought this for her—surely he'd remember Iris. Surely..."
She made to push past again, but Martha stepped forward, her presence like a wall. "Please, wait."
Kimberly's grief swelled, spilling into anger. She shoved Martha aside, but two nurses appeared from Jordan's room, intercepting her before she could enter.
"What are you doing?" Kimberly cried, her voice shrill with despair. "Why won't you let me see my husband?"
Martha raised a hand toward the nurses. "It's all right—go back, keep stabilizing him." The nurses obeyed, disappearing behind the door once more.
Turning back to Kimberly, Martha's tone hardened. "Your husband suffered a severe myocardial infarction. If you storm in there now, in this state, you will only make it worse, for him, for you, for everyone. Believe me, I've seen what happens when grief blinds someone to reason."
Kimberly's lips trembled as though she'd been struck. Her tears fell freely now, her voice ragged. "But I already know the truth..."
Martha stepped closer, her expression weary but unwavering. "No, you don't know, okay? You have no idea, ma'am... If you were here working, busting your ass to stabilize two people at once, you would know, but you're not a nurse, so you don't know what's happening to your husband, you don't know what's happening to your daughter, and in truth, you don't know anything at all! So head to the waiting room, and I'll call you when it's your turn to come in..."
The words cut through her like a blade. Kimberly stood frozen, her body weak, her heart collapsing inward. Finally, with trembling hands, she pulled the bag closer, as though it were the last fragment of her broken family.
"I'll take it with me... Thank you..."
Her voice was barely audible, a whisper fractured by tears. Then she turned, almost stumbling as she fled down the corridor, her sobs echoing against the sterile walls.
Martha watched her go, a shadow of sorrow softening her eyes. She never enjoyed speaking with such harshness, never liked breaking people when they were already bent beneath grief. But in the quiet sanctuary of her profession, she knew the truth: sometimes the only way to protect life was to wound the heart.
It was her burden to bear. And so she bore it.
Inside the rooms, the machines beeped. Slowly, Jordan's heart monitor steadied, its rhythm softening into a fragile lull. Two steps away, Iris's monitor pulsed in eerie synchrony, as if father and daughter were tethered by an invisible thread. Their heartbeats, though separated by silence and coma, drifted into the same cadence, like two dreamers lost in the same distant dream. And Martha noticed it first...
Far away. Very far away.
TO BE CONTINUED...