Her babysitter had the flu. She couldn’t afford to miss work. One absence could cost her the job she desperately needed.
So she did the only thing she could.
She brought her seven-year-old son with her.
“Ethan,” she whispered as they slipped through the staff entrance, “you have to sit quietly. Don’t touch anything. Don’t wander. I’ll check on you every few minutes.”
Ethan nodded solemnly.
Around his neck hung his most prized possession—a small red toy drum, its paint chipped, its strap fraying. It had been a gift from his father before he passed away. When Ethan felt nervous or shy, he tapped rhythms instead of speaking.
Maria sat him on a bench near the quieter VIP hallway.
“Please behave,” she kissed his forehead and hurried away with her cleaning cart.
The hospital mid-morning air felt sleepy.
Sunlight streamed across polished floors. Nurses moved quietly. Machines hummed.
Ethan swung his legs.
Too much white.
Too much silence.
Then he noticed it.
A door slightly open.
Room 402.
Something about it felt different. Not noisy. Not busy. Just… lonely.
Curiosity won.
Clutching his drum, Ethan tiptoed closer and peeked inside.
He saw a woman lying still in a large bed. Pale. Beautiful. Motionless.