The fluorescent hum lingers,
pressing against the silence
like an unwanted visitor.
Her fingers trace the curve of his hand,
so small, yet heavy
with the knowledge of endings.
He whispers,
his voice a paper-thin thread.
"Mama, I think it is time.
We can't fight the tide forever."
She shakes her head violently,
tears streaking her cheeks
like the rain that falls
just before a storm takes everything.
"No," she chokes.
"You are my heart, my only light.
If you go, I am a shadow without a sun.
I cannot— I will not—"
His eyes, too knowing,
meet hers with a gravity
that no child should carry.
"It is not your fault, Mama.
None of this is your fault."
Her breath comes shallow,
each one heavier than the last.
"Then promise me," she demands,
desperation clawing at the space between them.
"Promise me you'll fight.
Promise me you'll stay."
He nods, slow and solemn,
a warrior wearing a crown of resignation.
"I'll fight," he whispers,
as if the word alone
could build a wall against the tide.
But the tide does not listen.
It pulls, it swallows, it silences.
The machines scream first,
a cold chorus of alarm,
and then fall still.
She shakes him, screams his name,
her voice shredding the sterile air.
He is gone—
the promise unfulfilled,
the miracle undelivered.
She cradles him,
his body light as a secret.
Her sobs echo in the quiet room,
where shadows stretch long
and the tide rises,
pulling her into its depths.
