It had been a week since the nightmare, but Sophie hadn't let it show.
Not once.
Not when James walked beside her, their elbows barely brushing.
Not when he sent her cryptic little messages — notes left between pages of her notebook, or voice memos of cello music she'd once said she liked.
She smiled. She laughed. She even teased him, like nothing inside her had twisted in the night and whispered that she didn't really know him at all.
Maybe she didn't want to.
Maybe wanting was enough.
---
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and lemon wipes. The floor tiles were too bright under fluorescent lights. Sophie clutched her file tighter as she walked down the familiar hall — past the blue chairs, past the nurses' station, past the framed posters that talked about survivorship like it was a prize anyone could win if they just smiled harder.
She hated this place. And yet she came.
Because hope, fragile as a spider's thread, still whispered.
Maybe this time, the numbers had gone up.
Maybe this time, her heart wasn't working against her.
Maybe.
---
Dr. Alexander met her with the same expression he always wore: kind, careful, like he was trying not to break her with words.
"Hi, Sophie. Let's sit."
She did.
He flipped through her chart. Sophie watched his eyes — always the eyes. They told the truth long before the lips did.
They didn't sparkle today.
"Sophie… your condition has worsened slightly since the last visit. The scarring on the left valve has increased. And the arrhythmias are becoming more frequent."
She sat perfectly still.
"Can it be fixed?"
"There are still palliative options. We can adjust your medication. Slow things down."
"But not stop it."
He exhaled. "No."
Sophie blinked once, slowly. "How long?"
"One and a half year or maybe less. It's difficult to say with precision. But I'd recommend making the time you have feel meaningful. You've done well so far. You've… lived more fully than most."
Her mouth curled in a bitter smile. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
He didn't answer.
She left without saying goodbye.
---
The walk home felt longer than usual.
The sky was pale and overcast. People moved past her in soft blurs — mothers with strollers, a man selling mangoes from a cart, two girls sharing a bag of popcorn and laughing like the world had no expiration date.
Sophie pressed her hand against her chest.
It didn't hurt — not exactly.
It was just heavy.
Like the beat of her heart had become something she had to carry instead of something that carried her.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to sleep. She wanted—
Her legs buckled.
The ground tilted.
And then the world went dark.
---
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was a chandelier — soft brass and dusted crystal, swaying slightly above her.
The ceiling wasn't her aunt's.
The bed wasn't hers.
And the scent in the air — lavender, old books, something warm — was familiar.
Sophie blinked.
Slowly, painfully, she turned her head.
She was in a bedroom — tall windows, heavy curtains, a nightstand with a glass of water and a candle that had burned low. The blankets were thick. The sheets smelled like cedar.
And sitting beside her, knitting in a worn armchair, was Mrs. Williams.
The older woman looked up and smiled gently. "There you are."
Sophie opened her mouth, but her throat was dry.
Mrs. Williams poured her a glass of water and helped her sip.
"You fainted," she said softly. "I saw you while I was buying groceries. Up by the old rooftop garden above Shay's Market. I don't know what brought you there — maybe the quiet. But when I found you, you were on the ground."
Sophie tried to speak.
Her voice was barely audible. "You brought me here?"
Mrs. Williams nodded. "Of course. This is where you'd be safe."
Sophie swallowed hard, eyes stinging.
"Does James know?"
"He will. He's not back yet. But I sent a message."
Sophie closed her eyes.
The darkness behind her lids felt like water.
Like falling again.
Like floating in a place where endings felt too close, and beginnings were too fragile to hold.
---
And that's where we stop — exactly where you asked.