The hospital room was quiet except for the soft beeping of machines.
Ken lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, his body heavy with exhaustion. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the white sheets. He felt weak. Tired. Like he was slowly fading into nothing.
This is what dying feels like, he thought. Slowly disappearing while the world goes on without you.
He thought about his mother. How she must have felt in her final days. The same weakness. The same exhaustion. The same quiet acceptance.
I understand now, Mom. I finally understand.
The door opened.
Amy and Laura walked in, their faces pale, their eyes red-rimmed. They had been crying. They were trying to hide it, but Ken knew them too well.
"Hey," Amy said, her voice cracking. "You look terrible."
Ken smiled weakly. "Thanks. You look great too."
Laura laughed—a wet, broken sound. "We brought you flowers. They're ugly, but we tried."
