That afternoon, a storm had rolled through the city. Rain hammered against the windows, and thunder echoed through the halls. By the time Lila slipped back inside, she was soaked through—mud clung to her shoes, her hands, even streaked across her face.
Security was distracted. Nurses rushed between rooms.
And the door to Room 701… was slightly open.
Lila paused for a moment, her heart beating fast. She knew she wasn’t supposed to go in.
But something pulled her forward.
Quietly, she slipped inside.
The room was dim, filled with the soft rhythm of machines. Jonathan Whitaker lay exactly as he always had—pale, motionless, untouched by the years passing around him.
Lila stepped closer, her small footsteps barely making a sound.
She stood beside his bed and stared at him for a long time.
“My grandma was like this once,” she whispered, her voice soft and uncertain in the stillness. “Everyone said she was gone… but I knew she could hear me.”
She climbed carefully onto the chair next to him, gripping the edge as she leaned closer.
“They talk about you like you’re not here,” she said gently. “Like you already left.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“That must feel really lonely.”