I stood frozen, watching that gurney roll slowly toward me.
An aged hand drooped from the edge of the sheet, swaying lightly with each movement.
My father's hand.
Covered in needle marks and bruises.
And in that stiff palm, still clutched tight—a photo.
Me as a little girl, sitting on his shoulders, laughing without a care in the world.
"Dad…"
My mouth opened. No sound came out.
All the blood in my body seemed to rush backward. The world tilted.
The nurses stopped when they saw me. Their eyes filled with sympathy.
"Dr. Winfield… our condolences."
"We did everything we could… if the surgery had been just a little earlier…"
I couldn't hear the rest.
The world spun. My legs buckled. I dropped hard onto the cold tile floor.
My forehead hit the ground with a dull thud.
Blood ran down my brow, smearing across my eyes.
But I felt no pain.
My heart was already dead.
I knelt there, forehead pressed to the floor, like a sculpture that had lost its soul.
No crying. No screaming.
Only endless emptiness.
Two hours later.
My phone rang again.
Adrian, calling back.
I picked up mechanically, my movements slow like a rusted machine.
"Hello?"
His voice was light. Happy. Still slightly breathless.