In a vast, blue expanse, clouded and endless, a northern void stretching in every direction yet offering no ground to walk upon, a solitary figure drifted as though submerged in the ocean of his own undoing. He floated, half-swimming, half-drowning, like a diver who had descended too deep into the abyss. That man was Jordan. And there, ahead of him, like a fragile lantern in the fog, moved his daughter, young Iris. He followed her without question, for she alone seemed to know the way through this liminal sea of thought.
"Who are you?" Jordan asked, his voice strangely muted, as though spoken underwater. "And why must I follow you?"
"We are inside the same thought," Iris replied, her tone both gentle and urgent. "I am another consciousness... and we have to stay together."
They halted, suspended in the void, neither rising nor falling, only drifting. Iris turned to face him, her eyes luminous, unshaken by the emptiness that surrounded them.
"This is not the real world," Jordan said quietly. "I don't know who you are."
"Try to remember," Iris pleaded. "Why do you think we are dreaming the same dream? I, too, am unconscious. Remember me... please."
Iris's small hand reached for his, her palm warm even in that cold nowhere. "What if you never reach the exit? What if you fall away, and I must go on alone? With no reference, no anchor?"
Jordan searched for words, but silence filled his chest instead.
"I want to see you," Iris whispered. "And here we are... but can you die in peace? Can you leave me here in a dream? That is all this is, a dream."
"You're part of my dream," Jordan answered, his voice cracking. "But I don't know who you are."
Suddenly, a force unseen began pulling him downward, an undertow in the void. Iris clung desperately to his hand, her small body trembling against the drag.
"No! Don't go down! Hold on! I want you here... remember!" she cried.
The pull grew stronger, the pressure swelling like a tidal wave beneath him.
"Remember and rise! Remember and rise!" Iris repeated, her voice breaking with urgency.
But Jordan's grip slipped. In a father's strange, instinctive gesture, protective, yet impossibly distant, he released her hand.
"COME BACK, DAD!!"
Her scream pierced the void as Jordan vanished into the depths. The dream shattered...
And with a violent jolt, Jordan's body convulsed on the hospital bed. The machine beside him shrieked with long, dreadful tones as doctors and nurses swarmed around him. A defibrillator pressed against his chest; his body arched, then fell still. Among the six figures surrounding him stood Martha, her hands steady even as her heart trembled. She drew a syringe, sliding it deftly into his arm, adjusting the IV with clinical precision.
"Move this line, quickly," she ordered, her voice low, almost mechanical.
The monitors flickered wildly, Jordan's heartbeat an irregular thunderstorm on the screen. Martha's eyes narrowed; experience told her what the others feared. She leaned back slightly, her breath uneven, and beckoned a younger nurse.
"Paula... I think it's over."
Paula blinked, her face pale. "Over...? Doctor, what do you mean?"
"Put him into palliative care," Martha whispered, the words heavy as stone.
Paula stared once more at Jordan, stunned by the finality. Her sadness was quiet, resigned. "Understood."
"I'll call Kimberly," Martha said, turning quickly. "Finish here, and then come to my office. I'll inform Mrs. Kimberly from there."
"And... and what about Miss Iris?"
Martha hesitated, her throat tightening. "It's too late for them to meet again." With that, she left.
In her office, Martha reached for the phone. But as her fingers brushed it, her chest constricted. Her breathing grew shallow, ragged, as though the weight of this call pressed against her very lungs. She blinked rapidly, her green eyes flickering with pain, haunted by the thought of facing Kimberly again. The past pressed against her ribs like iron bars.
Paula rushed in. "Doctor... have you called Mrs. Kimberly yet?"
Martha did not answer, too focused on each labored breath.
"Doctor, are you all right?" Paula's voice trembled.
Martha's eyes dimmed and brightened with every blink, like a lantern about to extinguish. She reached into her bag, fumbling for a small vial. Her hands shook, but she managed to press the phone into Paula's hand.
"You call her," Martha said hoarsely.
"But, I don't know-"
"Just stay calm. Don't collapse, no matter what she says."
Without another word, Martha staggered out of the office, down the stairs, through the labyrinth of white coats and worried faces, until she burst into the open air.
Outside, the sky was darker than it should have been, the clouds hanging heavy with unspoken grief. She opened the vial, iron pills for her anemia, and swallowed several with desperate haste. Slowly, her breath began to steady, her trembling eased.
And then, a sound. A broken whistle, not cheerful but aching, like sorrow itself made audible. She turned and saw, near her feet, a mockingbird.
It lay wounded, one wing twisted, its small body shivering. The bird could not fly, nor walk, nor even rise; it only fluttered its half-ruined wing and sent out those mournful cries, as though begging the world for mercy it would never understand.
Martha sank to her knees, gathering the fragile creature in her hands. She stroked its belly with infinite care, whispering nothing, only breathing. And in that moment, her own heart quieted, her own storm subsided.
The sky, though still heavy, deepened into a softer shade of blue.
On the otherside, the waiting room was carved almost entirely of wood—oak panels and polished surfaces that carried the weight of years, a silence so tangible it seemed to breathe with its own memory. Kimberly sat alone on a blue chair, her body trembling with the weight of nerves and sorrow. The air smelled faintly of varnish, like a library that had forgotten laughter.
At last, the door creaked open. An elderly woman wearing glasses, her posture firm yet softened by age, stood there holding the door.
"Mrs. Kimberly... you may come in," she said kindly.
Kimberly rose slowly, as though carrying a burden far heavier than her own body. She left behind the hollow comfort of the blue seat and stepped into the other room.
It was large, bordered by tall windows that let in the pale daylight. Books lined the shelves, their spines forming a wall of forgotten stories. At the center stood a glass table, flanked by two chairs. The woman gestured for Kimberly to sit, then settled into the chair opposite.
Nervously, Kimberly reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of tissues, fumbling with it as if it were a lifeline.
"You needn't," the woman said gently. "There's already a box on the table."
A small, awkward laugh escaped Kimberly's lips. "Oh... I hadn't seen it." She slipped her packet back into her purse, her hands trembling.
The silence lingered for a breath, then the woman began.
"My name is Itziar. I'll be the one speaking with you during these sessions. So tell me, Mrs. Kimberly—what burden weighs on you these days? What thoughts bring you here?"
Kimberly lowered her eyes to the glass table. The polished surface reflected her sorrow, doubling it. Her heart sank as if pulled down with her gaze.
"Anxiety. Depression. The solitude of my house. The constant feeling that everything is crumbling. All of that," she whispered.
"Can you explain more? The more you release, the lighter you may feel."
Kimberly inhaled sharply. "Yesterday... a doctor told me she didn't know anything new about my husband's condition. He's in the hospital. They told me he was moved to palliative care. And I love him—I love him so much. I know he could keep fighting. Why don't they try harder? Why won't they let him live?"
Her voice broke.
Itziar's tone remained calm, though her words carried a painful truth. "Perhaps because they no longer see a future for a man suffering so deeply, inside and out. You told me on the phone he has CJD. There is no cure for such an advanced stage. They may simply wish to shorten his suffering."
"And what about me?" Kimberly's voice cracked. "Jordan always lived for me—he wanted to fight for me—"
"Jordan no longer remembers who you are, Mrs. Kimberly. He cannot fight for you now. The last thread he may hold is his daughter, for children are often the last memory to fade."
At that, tears welled in Kimberly's eyes, spilling onto her cheeks. "But why? Why so soon? The diagnosis came only months ago, and now, now he's slipping away already." She grabbed a tissue, her hands trembling.
"Sometimes," she said with a shuddering breath, "I feel I only remain alive for Iris. And even then... I don't know if she will ever wake up."
Itziar leaned forward, her eyes steady. "Remember this: you are here not only for your daughter, but because of all you've endured. Tell me, what else anchors you to this world?"
Kimberly hesitated, her lips quivering. "Jordan and I... we married thirty-five years ago. We had a son... but he died when he was only three months old. I... I was holding him against my shoulder one day, and I tripped. I dropped him. His tiny head struck the corner of a glass table, a table like this one, and it did not shatter. Instead, it was his skull that broke. I killed him."
Her words fell heavy into the air, like stones thrown into a bottomless well.
"Jordan blamed me. He hit me. Over and over. And though I never meant for it to happen, the guilt has devoured me every day since. I try to live. I try to do things, to carry on. But whenever the memories return, now that I'm more alone and there's... more weight involved... I think... perhaps the best option is to leave this world. Because Iris can care for herself now."
Itziar's eyes glistened, but her voice remained firm.
"That is the one option you must never take. Do you know why? Because though you may escape this world, your loved ones cannot escape the hole you leave behind. If Iris wakes to find her mother gone, do you think she will not be broken? Even as a grown woman, nearly thirty, such a loss would crush her. And your granddaughter—so young, so fragile, would be scarred forever. Pain of this kind spreads like fire. Your death would ignite a chain reaction of sorrow. Is that what you want?"
Kimberly wept openly now, her sobs quiet but relentless. "I just feel like no one remembers me anymore. I don't even know if my daughter loves me, or if my granddaughter dreams of me. Sometimes, I just want to disappear."
Itziar's voice grew sharp. "Then why haven't you? Why are you still here, Mrs. Kimberly?"
For a moment, silence swallowed the room. Kimberly's lips trembled, then parted. "Because... because I want to see my daughter awaken. And because the flowers I left at her side have not yet withered."
Itziar allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You fear leaving this world because you know that if you go, you will never again see your creation—or the creation of your creation. That is why you must stay. If Iris wakes, you will rejoice, for you endured it all with courage. And if she does not... you still have a granddaughter who needs you. You cannot abandon her. To do so would be selfish. And no one wishes to be remembered as selfish in the end."
Kimberly bowed her head, tears still streaming, but her breath steadier than before. "Thank you, Mrs. Itziar. I'll come back another day."
"Your next session will be in two days," Itziar said gently. "Our time is finished."
Kimberly rose slowly, her body still heavy with grief but her spirit carrying, for the first time in a long while, a fragile thread of hope.
The wooden fence gave way with a dry snap, as if the house itself groaned at the intrusion. Raphael and his three companions slipped into Iris's abandoned garden, their silhouettes cutting through the fading light like thieves in a ruined Eden. The place was rotting in silence: the jasmine plant, once fragrant with memory, now slumped in its pot beside the drained, filthy pool, its petals browning into dust. Abandonment carried its own perfume, sharp and unsettling.
"Alright," Raphael muttered, his voice steady with authority, "we look for proof."
Out on the street, Paulie waited in the idling black SUV, its orange hazards clicking like the heartbeat of the operation. Each flash mirrored the rhythm of their footsteps inside, a metronome for quiet crimes.
Tommy, restless as ever, pried up a wooden plank near the garden's edge and recoiled at the swarm of ants writhing beneath. His face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he pulled out a small flamethrower, squeezing its trigger with the glee of a child playing with matches. Fire licked the wood black, the ants scattering like shadows dissolving in sunlight.
Oscar, the quiet one with chestnut hair, observed without speaking. His eyes caught something unusual: a small hole hidden at the far corner of the artificial turf. It was no larger than a coin, yet it pulsed with darkness like a wound that refused to close. He left Tommy and his pyromania behind and crouched by it, curiosity gnawing at him.
Meanwhile, Raphael surveyed the house itself. He stood near the kitchen window, staring through the smudged glass, as though the walls could confess what had happened inside—what had left Iris unconscious and the home lifeless.
"Tommy, give me the flame," Oscar said, his voice calm but insistent.
Tommy shot him a look, reluctant to surrender his toy. "Why? Can't you see I'm cleaning this place up?"
"This isn't about disinfecting," Oscar snapped softly. "We're here to find Richardson."
Reluctantly, Tommy handed it over. "You think they'll pay us for this?"
Oscar smirked. "Isn't that why you took the job?"
With careful hands, Oscar seared the edges of the turf, peeling it back like a bandage from festering skin. Beneath, the small hole widened into something larger, something deliberately hidden. His breath caught as he reached inside. "Raphael. You'll want to see this."
Raphael crouched, his eyes narrowing as Oscar pulled free a sleek, black camera, its lens like a dead eye staring back at them.
"Holy Christ," Raphael whispered, the weight of the object heavy in his palm.
"That bastard Richardson," Oscar said.
Tommy leaned closer, trying to touch it. "A camera? So what? How do you know it was him?"
Raphael yanked it away. "Because he's the only one tied to what happened here. Who else? The six-year-old who lived in this house? Don't be an idiot."
The blond among them chuckled cruelly. "Yeah, maybe the kid planted it, right? Drew blueprints of the sewer system while she was at it."
Laughter broke out. All except Tommy, who stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned away, unwilling to be the butt of their derision.
As he walked toward the gate, Paulie stepped out of the SUV, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke curled around him like a halo of ash. "Out early, Tommy?" he asked, smirking.
"They found a camera," Tommy muttered, his voice low, retreating into the SUV's shadow.
Paulie exhaled, amused. "Do me a favor, step back out."
Tommy hesitated, then obeyed. He stood there, staring at the garden as if it whispered something only he could hear.
"You want a souvenir?" Paulie asked, half-mocking. "Take something. Solve nothing. That's how these jobs go."
Tommy lingered in silence, then turned back into the garden. The others watched with faint ridicule as he approached the rotting jasmine plant. Its once-glorious blooms now exhaled a scent both sweet and sour, like perfume laced with decay. Tommy bent down, gripped the heavy pot with both hands, and heaved it against his wiry frame. Nearly forty kilograms, but he carried it stubbornly, sweat streaking his temple, his breath strained.
Oscar's eyebrows lifted, and he called the others' attention. Raphael laughed, slipping off his sunglasses as though to shield his eyes from such foolishness. "If I take these off, I won't have to see the stupidity burning them out," he muttered. The blond doubled over in laughter.
But Tommy did not falter. He carried the dead jasmine as if it were something sacred. Reaching the fence, he smashed through two more wooden boards, breaking his path open to the street.
Paulie shook his head in disbelief as Tommy emerged, the ridiculous weight in his arms. "This guy..."
Tommy smiled faintly, triumphant. "Pop the trunk, Paulie."
The SUV's hatch clicked open. Together, they wrestled the jasmine pot inside. The moment it settled, the air of the car filled with its cloying perfume—half sweet, half rancid—painting the cabin in shades of black and white.
A parrot sang nearby, its song fractured, imitating voices it could never truly possess. The note hung in the air, at once beautiful and broken, like the men themselves.
Meanwhile, Sarah sat waiting for Edwards on the worn-out sofa, as she always did. The apartment carried its own fragile brightness, a hopeful layer painted over shadows too deep to hide. Papers were scattered across the countertop in a loose, white constellation, the kind of blank space that begged for stories but had not yet received them.
Her legs dangled from the seat, her small feet swinging in the air, never quite reaching the floor. She studied her socks—pink and yellow, with a childish flower stitched at the center. They were cheerful, naïve, almost mocking the life she lived, for there was nothing innocent about it. Still, Sarah told herself this was fine. Life, after all, was never asked for, only endured.
The digital clock beside her blinked its cold red digits: 13:43. She exhaled, slid from the sofa, and crossed the room. At just under four and a half feet tall, her body was slight, a whisper of a figure moving through a world built for giants.
Her eyes drifted to the radio on the counter, a relic accompanied by four neatly stacked discs. Sarah tilted her head, studying them with the awe of an explorer finding treasure. A smile, bright and innocent, broke across her face. She pulled a chair closer, climbed onto it, and then onto the counter itself. Carefully, almost ceremonially, she selected a disc, opened it with fragile fingers, and placed the CD into the cassette deck.
The machine resisted her, its forest of buttons overwhelming. She pressed them one by one in quick succession, like a pianist fumbling through an unfamiliar concerto, until—at last—the right one. Music burst forth.
A song filled the room: "Ninguna Parte" by Estopa. The Spanish melody unfolded like sunlight through dusty curtains. Sarah's expression bloomed. She began to dance on the white countertop, each step turning the sterile surface into a stage. Her little body swayed, spun, and jumped, the counter creaking beneath her as if it too wished to dance. Between movements, she would seize a blank sheet of paper, attempt to write a sentence, then laugh, crumple it, and toss it aside—only to resume her dance.
For a while, it was only her: a child, music, paper, and the illusion of freedom.
The door opened. Edwards entered, his figure heavy in the doorway, his eyes immediately catching the scene.
"What are you doing, Sarah?" he asked softly, though amusement curled his voice. "Exploring new things?"
She turned to him with innocent reproach. "Why were you so late today, Mister Edwards?"
"I had calls, sweetheart," he said, loosening his tie with tired hands. "Do you like Spanish music?"
"Yes," she replied, her face glowing as the rhythm carried her. "It calms me. I can think with it."
Edwards glanced at the countertop, at the dwindling stack of blank papers scattered around her. A knowing smile touched his lips. "I didn't put those there so you could burn through your creativity in one afternoon. Paper costs me money, you know. Go slowly."
Sarah laughed, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "I know... but I want to write something. A text. Something about my feelings. I just... don't know how."
"Do you want me to help you?" Edwards asked.
"No," she said firmly. "They're my feelings. I have to do it myself."
He studied her for a moment, his expression softening into something almost paternal. "Good," he said. "Then I'll let you pour them out as you wish. If you need to rewind—"
"The button on the left," Sarah interrupted, smirking with mischievous pride. "I already figured it out."
She giggled, covering her mouth, her laughter small but genuine. Edwards's smile widened, the kind of smile reserved for moments that pierce the armor of cynicism. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving her with the music.
Sarah stayed on the counter, dancing and scribbling, her socks glowing against the white tile like two fragile suns. For a fleeting moment, she sang freely.
In the palliative care ward, Jordan sat propped against the incline of his bed, his breaths slow and heavy, the television flickering at his side. The walls were painted a pale blue, a color meant to soothe, but one that only reminded him of the sky he would never see again. He watched the screen without watching, eyes dimming, body thinning—dissolving into the quiet inevitability of decline.
The door opened with a faint metallic click. Paula, the young nurse, entered carrying a tray of food. She set it on the small rolling table beside his bed. Her hands betrayed her nerves; her posture betrayed her reluctance. She was still too young for this kind of work, too young to stand daily at the threshold between life and death. Yet her white uniform bound her to the duty of confronting it.
"Mr. Jordan," she whispered, almost pleading. "You have to eat."
"What does it matter?" His voice was dry, brittle as paper. "I'm going to die."
She froze, unable to answer, because in her heart she knew he was right.
Jordan turned his head toward her, his tired eyes narrowing at the television. "Can't they put anything better on? It's not as if I'm going anywhere."
"At least eat a little," Paula tried again, her words unraveling into helplessness.
As she turned to leave, Jordan's voice stopped her. "How long do you think I have left? I'm starting to hallucinate..."
Paula hesitated, her young face shadowed by something older than her years. Her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful, resigned. "A few days," she said softly. "Maybe only a few hours... no more than that, Mr. Jordan."
The silence that followed was heavier than any verdict.
She left the room quietly. Outside, Martha was sorting through some documents. She raised her head as Paula approached.
"How is he?" Martha asked, her voice calm but knowing.
Paula shook her head. "It won't be long. He's dying."
Martha exhaled and nodded. "Then I suppose I can go home."
"Should I call Mrs. Kimberly?" Paula offered.
"No," Martha replied. "I'll tell her myself."
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Paula's forehead, a small maternal gesture. "You did well," she said with a gentle smile, and then she left.
Martha removed her white coat, slung her bag over her shoulder, and switched off the lights of her office. In her pocket rattled the small bottle of iron pills—a reminder of her own fragility, her own private battle. The corridor felt long and narrow, the walk to her car weighted with unspoken thoughts.
Her home greeted her in semi-darkness. Only the orange glow of a tall lamp in the corner lit the living room, casting long shadows across the walls. She dropped her keys onto the table, removed her jacket, and let it fall carelessly to the floor. Exhausted, she sank into the sofa, staring blankly at the wall ahead, her green eyes dulled by the day.
Then, a sound. High-pitched, sharp, undeniable.
She turned, and there it was: her mockingbird. The small creature perched on her wrist, its fragile wing still bandaged from an old wound. Under the pet, a scar traced a full circle, like a ring of memory that time refused to erase.
Martha's lips curved into a tired smile. The bird's dark eyes studied the markings on her skin, as though both woman and creature were bound by invisible threads of pain. For the first time in days, peace slipped quietly into the room.
Her eyes shone brighter, the green deepening, as though the mockingbird had given her a fragment of its borrowed song.
Finally, Kimberly sat at the edge of her daughter's hospital bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She should have been the one asleep, drifting into dreams, while Iris, already grown, already strong, should have been the one keeping vigil. Yet fate had inverted the roles, leaving the mother awake in her sorrow, and the daughter lost in a dream without a destination.
The lavender bouquet and the unopened letter still lay upon the nightstand, watching silently like forgotten witnesses. Kimberly stared at them as if they could speak, as if their scent and their silence could explain how her daughter's eyes had sunk deeper into the abyss of sleep, her face tilted upward toward the ceiling, motionless.
Then came the sound.
The sigh of the heart monitor faltered, thinned, and stretched into a piercing monotone. The line across the screen straightened, merciless and absolute.
Kimberly rose in panic, her hand pressed against her mouth as though trying to trap her own scream. She struck the red emergency button on the wall, and within seconds the corridor erupted with hurried footsteps. Nurses rushed in, their voices sharp but measured. One of them gently pushed Kimberly back, guiding her toward the hallway even as a defibrillator brushed against her sleeve. She stumbled out of the room, her sobs breaking the sterile air.
"Iris... Iris..." she whispered, the name crumbling in her throat.
Meanwhile, in another wing of the hospital, Jordan lay in his own bed, eyes closed, body stilled by exhaustion and decline. Alone in the half-light, he whispered too, as though some invisible thread bound him to his daughter across the silence of walls and corridors.
"Iris... Iris..."
Paula, the young nurse adjusting the television at his bedside, froze. Her hand stopped on the dial, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. She turned slowly, watching the old man with a mixture of fear and awe.
Moments later, Kimberly, wild with grief, ran down the hall to Jordan's room. She pushed forward, desperate, but Paula barred her way with firm arms.
"I need to see him! I need to see him! Why is it that everyone I love prefers to leave this world instead of staying with me?! even if it's only inside these walls!" Kimberly cried, her struggle fierce, her heart breaking against Paula's hold.
Then Paula whispered the words that stilled her resistance. She drew Kimberly into an embrace and murmured into her ear:
"Jordan said her name. He said the name of his daughter."
Kimberly froze. Her breath caught, her tears held trembling at the edge. "Is it true? What did he say? Tell me... it's true, isn't it?"
Paula nodded, her own voice breaking. "... Yeah... He said: Iris."
And at that very moment, as though the sound of her name was a tether thrown across the abyss, Iris's pulse began to stir again. Her heart found its rhythm, the once-erratic beats settling into a steady cadence. The machine hummed and pulsed in time with Jordan's fading whispers, the living and the dying bound in a fragile duet.
When one soul returned, another was called away.
Kimberly didn't see any of both things happen, her eyes fixed on the walls of the corridor when Jordan's whispers thinned and ceased. His arms relaxed at his sides and his pulse stuttered and fell into silence.
The quiet that followed was vast, a hole void that filled the corridor, the ward, the very air itself, as though the world itself had paused.
And in the end, only Iris, still unconscious, still suspended in her dream...
...made any sound at all.
TO BE CONTINUED...