Amara woke up panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She pressed a trembling hand against her heart, willing herself to breathe slowly, to catch her breath.
It was just a dream.
But not one she could simply ignore. The images clung to her mind, raw and vivid, dragging her back in time.
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Flashback
It was around noon when Amara decided to go home for the weekend. As usual, she made a quick stop at her eldest sister's place before heading to the house. But the moment she stepped through the doorway, she was met not with a smile — but with words that shattered her world.
"Mother is hospitalized… and her condition is critical," Given said, her voice trembling with despair.
The words struck Amara like a thunderclap, leaving her momentarily frozen. Her knees weakened, and tears spilled down her cheeks before she could even speak.
Her mother was her anchor — her comfort, her safe place, her home in human form. She couldn't imagine breathing in a world without her.
"But… she was fine the last time I saw her," Amara's voice cracked, trembling under the weight of fear. "I knew something wasn't right, but not this… not to the point of this."
She stood there in stunned silence for only a moment before urgency took over. Grabbing her bag with unsteady hands, she pleaded, "We need to go. Now."
The drive to the hospital was a blur — the streets, the buildings, even the people walking past seemed unreal. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears, and the faint echo of her sister's words.
When they finally arrived, Amara rushed down the sterile corridors, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling her nose. Every step felt heavier, as if fear itself was pressing her into the ground.
She prayed silently — Lord, please, not my mother. Please, let her live.
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Amara's eyes fluttered open, the harsh morning light slicing through the thin curtains. Her breath was still uneven, her chest tight with the weight of the memory.
The nightmare — or was it more than that? — had pulled her back into a place she thought she had buried long ago.
She swallowed hard, blinking away the sting of tears threatening to surface. That day, the fear, the helplessness, the aching uncertainty — they all flooded back with vivid clarity.
Her mother's fragile smile, the hospital bed, the endless waiting — it was all etched into her heart, a scar no time could erase.
And then there was her father.
His absence, his failures, the wounds he had left — wounds that cut deeper than any illness.
Amara pulled her knees close to her chest and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold the pieces together.
No one had the right to demand her forgiveness, not yet. Not until the pain stopped defining her.
For now, her books would remain her refuge, her shield against a world that often felt too heavy to carry.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the layers of hurt, a small spark flickered — the faintest hope that one day, peace might find her after all.
Andre noticed the discomfort etched across Amara's face as she stirred awake. Her breathing was still uneven, her body tense and restless.
She realized then that what Amara had wasn't merely a dream. From the way she had tossed and turned, even murmuring softly in her sleep, she had been wrestling with something far deeper — a storm of pain and memories threatening to overwhelm her.
For a moment, Andre's heart tightened with concern. She had almost been startled out of her skin by her sudden movements.
Quietly, she reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Was it a bad dream, nightmare?" she asked softly, her voice steady and warm.
She opened her eyes slowly, meeting Ander's gaze with a flicker of vulnerability she rarely showed.