George shivered under the thick hospital blankets. His small body fought against the fever, his eyelids half-closed, and his lips dry, whispering words no one could understand. In that cold room, where pain left invisible marks, the absence of his mother was an open wound in his chest.
Lucia Green, his grandmother, held his hand firmly yet tenderly. Beside her, John stood, towering, his eyes fixed on the door as if waiting for James to come and hear what he deserved. But their son didn't come. And that hurt even more.
"You'll be alright, my angel," Lucia whispered. "Your mother... she's here with you, I know she is."
And she was.
Mary, now a soul between worlds, sat beside her son's bed. She no longer felt pain, cold, or hunger. She only felt love — a love that extended beyond death, stronger than time. She tried to touch him, embrace him, whisper in his ear. But nothing. Only silence responded.
"George..." she whispered, tears she could no longer shed. "Forgive me. I tried... I swear I tried."
George's fever intensified, and his body thrashed in confused dreams. In the midst of delirium, he saw a soft light, and within it, a familiar figure — the silhouette of his mother, enveloped in calm. She was there, but not as before. She was... distant. Untouchable.
"Mama?" he murmured.
Lucia shuddered. "Did you say something, dear?"
George slipped back into unconsciousness, but a faint smile touched his lips for a brief moment. Mary knelt by the bed and kissed his forehead — even though he could not feel it.
Outside the room, John crossed his arms, and the hard look he threw down the hallway was full of silent promises. "We won't let him grow up alone. And we won't forgive what our son did."
The curtain at the window moved without wind. Mary stood slowly, her restless soul determined.
It wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.