As Rosemary pushed forward, Cynthia's weight threatened to pull her down, but sheer maternal instinct kept her moving. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, each fluorescent light buzzing overhead as if mocking her helplessness.
The doors to the emergency ward burst open, and a team of doctors sprang into action. Strong hands eased Cynthia from Rosemary's grip and onto a stretcher, where monitors blinked to life.
"She's not breathing," a nurse whispered, urgency thick in her voice.
"Start compressions!" A doctor ordered, already slipping an oxygen mask over Cynthia's face.
Rosemary felt her knees buckle, her vision blurring as the world closed in. A firm grip steadied her—another nurse, her eyes filled with practiced empathy.
"Ma'am, take a deep breath. We're doing everything we can."
But Rosemary's gaze remained locked on her daughter, willing her to wake up. To move. To give any sign of life.
A machine beeped sharply, making every heartbeat in the room pause.
"Come on, sweetheart, fight," Rosemary whispered. "Please, fight."
Inside the emergency room, Doctor Sandy took one swift glance at Cynthia and ordered, "She needs an X-ray immediately." His voice carried an urgency that made Rosemary's blood turn cold.
Cynthia was rushed away, leaving Rosemary frozen in place, gripping the edge of the desk for support. Her hands trembled, and her vision blurred.
Moments later, Peterson Graciano, her husband, appeared by her side, his face tight with fear and determination. His eyes scanned her frantically, searching for answers, even though he had already received an update from her earlier.
"They're taking X-rays," Rosemary choked out. "She—she's not waking up, Peterson."
Peterson placed a steadying arm around her, an attempt to comfort her, but even his touch couldn't stop the violent shaking that had overtaken her body.
"She'll be okay," he whispered, though his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.
Minutes crawled by like hours before Doctor Sandy returned, holding a folder of X-ray results in his hand. His expression was grave.
"We've transferred her to a ward," he said. "But there's something you need to know."
Together, Rosemary and Peterson entered the ward where Cynthia lay motionless on the bed, her small frame almost swallowed by the crisp white sheets. The sight was unbearable.
Rosemary sucked in a sharp breath. Just hours ago, Cynthia had been laughing, chatting, full of life. Now, she was a ghost of herself.
Doctor Sandy stood before them, the weight of his diagnosis visible on his face. Rosemary couldn't bear the suspense any longer.
"Doctor, please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What's wrong with my daughter?"
The doctor sighed deeply, his grip tightening around the folder before he finally spoke.
"I'm afraid the cut on her head was more severe than we anticipated. It went deep, reaching the hippocampus—the part of the brain responsible for memory. When the hippocampus is damaged, it can lead to memory loss. It will be very difficult for her to form new memories."
The words slammed into Rosemary like a sledgehammer. She staggered, clutching Peterson's arm for support as sobs wracked her body.
"No..." Rosemary gasped. "No, this can't be."
She refused to accept the doctor's verdict. "Does this mean she won't... she won't remember us?" she stammered, her voice breaking.
Peterson, ever stoic, straightened. His voice was firm, demanding answers. "Doctor, are you saying she'll forget everything?" "That our own daughter won't know who we are?"
Doctor Sandy hesitated, his gaze flickering between the desperate parents and the unconscious child lying in the hospital bed.
"Not all hope is lost," he said finally. "Memory loss isn't always permanent."
He exhaled, the weight of his explanation pressing down on him. "Recovery will depend on intensive mental stimulation. She'll need to keep her brain highly active."
Rosemary grasped onto the sliver of hope like a lifeline. "How?" "How can we help her recover?" She pleaded, though her tears never stopped streaming down her flushed cheeks.
Doctor Sandy nodded, a faint smile breaking through the grimness. "Interactive activities are crucial, especially virtual reality games."
Peterson narrowed his eyes. "Virtual reality?"
The doctor nodded. "They activate multiple areas of the brain, which could help repair the damage." He paused, his tone growing serious. "Unfortunately, there is no medication for this condition."
Rosemary and Peterson exchanged a glance. Virtual reality games? Could this really work? As unlikely as it sounded, they were willing to try anything.
Peterson straightened, resolving himself to the plan. "We'll get one right away."
The doctor raised a hand. "There's no need to purchase one. The hospital has the necessary equipment for her therapy. However..." He hesitated again, as though reluctant to continue.
Rosemary's stomach twisted. "However, what?"
Doctor Sandy exhaled, rubbing his temple. "You'll need to cover the cost of the full treatment." His voice was somber. "It's an extensive process, and the equipment isn't cheap."
Rosemary swallowed hard. "How much are we talking about?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Doctor Sandy closed his eyes briefly, calculating. "Fifty thousand US dollars for the entire procedure."
The words hung heavy in the air, pressing down on the couple like an unbearable weight. Rosemary felt her legs buckle, but Peterson caught her, holding her tightly.
Their combined monthly income barely scratched the surface of such an amount. They had no savings to fall back on—no safety net.
Just then, a soft voice broke the tension.
"Who are you?"
Rosemary's heart shattered all over again.
She spun toward the bed, gripping Cynthia's fragile hand. "Cynthia, sweetheart, it's me," she whispered. "Mommy."
Cynthia's brow furrowed as though trying to grasp something just out of reach. "Mommy?" The word sounded foreign, like something she had never said before.
Peterson stiffened, his throat tightening. "Do you remember me?" His voice was low, but full of hope.
Cynthia blinked, staring at him for a long moment before shaking her head.
Rosemary sobbed, clutching Cynthia's hand to her chest. "Mommy loves you," she whispered. "I love you so much."
A single tear slipped down Cynthia's cheek. "I... I don't remember," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But... I want to."
Hope flickered in Rosemary's chest.
Doctor Sandy stepped forward. "That's a good sign. She's willing to engage—that's critical for recovery."
Peterson inhaled deeply, determination rising in his chest. "Then we'll get the money. Whatever it takes."
Rosemary nodded, wiping her tears. They wouldn't let their daughter slip away—not without a fight.
Peterson turned back to Doctor Sandy. "Can we pay in installments?"
Doctor Sandy exhaled, rubbing his chin. "The hospital does allow installment plans, but..." He paused, hesitating. "We require a significant down payment before the treatment can begin."
Peterson's jaw tightened. "How much?"
"Twenty thousand dollars upfront," the doctor said solemnly.
The number hit Rosemary like a physical blow. "We don't have that kind of money," she admitted. "Not even close."
Doctor Sandy hesitated again. "There are foundations that offer medical grants," he said, "but the approval process takes time, and Cynthia needs treatment immediately."
Rosemary covered her mouth, shaking her head. "We don't have time."
Silence hung heavy between them.
Finally, Peterson straightened, his face set with resolve. "There has to be another way. I'll find a way to get the money."
Rosemary turned to him, searching his face. "How?"
Peterson clenched his fists. "Whatever it takes."
Doctor Sandy sighed, nodding. "Do whatever you must. But remember—time is of the essence."
Cynthia's fragile voice interrupted them again.
"I don't want to forget... Please, help me."
Her small plea shattered the last of Rosemary's composure. She pressed her forehead against Cynthia's, holding her like she would never let go.