The next day dawned with a cruel consistency. Nothing had changed. I had spent the night anchored to my mother, my small, frail arms wrapped around her as if I could pull her warmth into my own freezing marrow.
Now, the morning light filtered through the curtains, exposing the reality of my condition.
I lay in bed, the mere act of breathing feeling like a Herculean task. My hair, once thick and lustrous, felt like heavy silk weighed down by lead. My skin was a translucent parchment, pulled taut over a skeletal frame that looked far too brittle for a nine-year-old. I looked like a ghost that had forgotten to leave the living world.
"You're awake," a voice said.
I turned my head slowly. My father stood in the doorway, his face a map of exhaustion. He looked drained, the spark of the man I remembered from my later years not yet extinguished, but certainly flickering.
"Yeah. Just now," I replied, my voice a thin rasp.
"I think Mom isn't here?"
"She went out," he said shortly.
"Why didn't you go with her?" I asked, the effort of speaking forcing me to sink deeper into the pillow.
"I have to watch over you," he muttered, crossing the room to sit at the edge of the mattress.
He sat in a heavy silence for a while, but it wasn't long before the house began to fill. Relatives—aunts, cousins, faces I hadn't thought of in decades—trickled into the room. They stood in clusters, their voices hushed into that particular, irritating tone reserved for the dying.
In my original life, the "before me" would have rushed to them, desperate for comfort, seeking the warmth of a hug. But the woman inside this small, failing body knew better.
Their worry was a performance; their sweet talk was a hollow substitute for a helping hand.
To them, I was a tragedy to be observed, not a person to be saved. I watched them through half-lidded eyes, feeling the bitter sting of cynicism. Their theater didn't move me anymore.
"Elena."
The front door clicked, and my mother's voice cut through the room like a bell. To me, it was the only sound that mattered.
"Mummy," I called out softly.
"Mummy, I'm hungry."
The room went still. My mother walked in, her eyes immediately finding mine before darting toward my father and the relatives.
"Did no one give her anything to eat?"
My father stood, his movements defensive as he headed toward the kitchen.
"She just woke up. My sister and the kids just arrived, so I was talking to them."
"Leave it," my mother snapped, her patience worn thin by the weight of the unknown.
"It's time to go to the hospital. Come here, dear. I'll carry you."
I knew the script of this broken family by heart. I was used to the friction, the misplaced priorities, and the way my illness was becoming a battlefield for their grievances.
I struggled to a sitting position, my joints aching with a dull, persistent throb. As I reached out, my mother scooped me up. I was nothing but skin and bone, a feather-weight burden that should have been heavier. She carried me out of the house and into the bright, unforgiving sunlight.
Waiting by the car was my grandmother.
Seeing her now was a shock; she looked so much younger, the lines on her face not yet deep enough to hide the sharp, judgmental gaze she leveled at the world.
I settled into the seat, the ghost of my future self watching through the eyes of a dying child.