Ken turned to his mother, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Her face, though hollowed by illness, was lit with a fragile, ethereal smile. He could hardly believe his eyes; he had cried himself to sleep convinced that he would wake up to an empty bed and a cold room, but there she was—visibly weak, yet unmistakably alive.
He scrambled to her side, burying his face in the crook of her neck, hugging her with a desperate, gentle firmness. The dam broke again, and hot tears fell uncontrollably onto her hospital gown.
"You made it... you're still here," Ken muttered through his sobs. Though he had pleaded for just one more day, he hadn't truly believed the universe would listen. To Ken, the heavens had granted him a miracle, a divine intervention that defied every medical chart in Dr. Finn's office. He had no way of knowing that the "heaven" he was thanking was currently sealed in a dark vault, holding back the very fabric of reality just to give him these hours.
