beep….beep….beep
The first things reaching my ears was the faint, rhythmic faint of a heart monitor.
It wasn't loud, but it steady.
There is my sister—laying on her favourite wooden small bed near her window.
She sleeping so peacefully, the sunlight spilled across her face, turning her hair into thread of gold.
A clear-small tube ran along her hollow cheeks to her nose, connecting to small machine beside her bed.
Another one monitor her pulse, it's green line flickering gently across the screen.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lilies — the same lilies Sister Elena always kept by the altar.
A nurse sat quietly in the corner, adjusting a notebook and a cup of tea that had gone cold.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lilies — the same lilies Sister Elena always kept by the altar.
A nurse sat quietly in the corner, adjusting a notebook and a cup of tea that had gone cold.
crack!
I startled—something hard pressed against my tongue.
Metallic taste. Sharp.
Fuck.
I spat it into my palm. A tooth.
Broken clean off—probably when I'd been clenching too hard again.
For a second, everything around me blurred—the machines, the light, even the faint beeping from Mona's bedside.
Pain didn't even register. Just that familiar sting crawling up my jaw, the one that always came when I tried too hard not to scream.
Holding it my hand, I put it back into my bag.
"She's been sleeping most of the afternoon," a soft voice whispered in Italian, her accent soft and local. "The new medication makes her drowsy."
Sister Maria.
"Maria…" I turn to look at her
"Sister Maria."
The voice slipped out before I even realized it.
"Maria…" I turned toward the doorway.
She stood there — same posture, same calm eyes that could see right through your walls. Her habit was a little faded now, her hands clasped in front of her the way she always did when she was trying not to cry.
"Maya," she breathed, almost like a prayer. "You came back."
I nodded, eyes never leaving my sister small figure on the bed.
Stepping closer, my chest tightening with every step.
Mona looked smaller than I remembered — her shoulders frail, her hands tucked neatly under the blanket. A small stuffed bear rested beside her pillow, the fur faded and one eye missing. She used to carry it everywhere.
For a long moment, I couldn't move. The room seemed to shrink around us — the quiet hum of the oxygen, the faint rattle of rain against the windowpane, the shallow rhythm of her breathing.
I sank into the chair beside her, my fingers trembling as I reached out. Her hand was warm, but fragile — like glass under sunlight.
"Hey, Mona…" I whispered. "It's me."
My eyes already stung, I bite my lips not to let any tears roll down, not now. Mona always wanted to see everyone smile, she wanted to see the prettiest smile in this life—and I'm training myself to give her what she want.
"She knows," she murmured. "Even when she sleeps, she always knows when you're here."
Outside, I could hear the children laughing again, somewhere in the courtyard. The sound drifted through the window — bright, alive, cruel in its beauty.
I swallowed hard, brushing a strand of hair from Mona's forehead.
Every time I came back, I prayed for the same thing — that her body would hold out a little longer, that her spirit wouldn't give up. That somehow, she would still get her surgery, still see another summer.
The machine beeped softly again.
I closed my eyes.
"Please," I breathed, barely audible. "Just a little longer."
Maria stepped closer to the window, her eyes looking outside the garden.
"The doctor came yesterday," she said at last, her voice steady. "He gave her a new medicine again."
I looked up sharply, my brows furrowed. "Again? He just changed it last month."
Why did he did that? Is something wrong ?Maria sighed, eyes dropping to the floor as if she was afraid the truth might bruise me.
"Her body isn't reacting well to the old prescription. Too strong, he said. It was wearing her down."
I swallowed, glancing at Mona.
She lay still, her breathing shallow, her lips barely parting with each soft exhale. "She can barely stay awake now," I whispered.
"I need her to rest peacefully, not to be a tester…" I whispered. My eyes glued to her small face.
He not even tell me about changing medicine description, what will affect her if she using, she just a small child—my little sister.
Who the hell on earth can handle with those medicine?
I couldn't sit still anymore. The air in the room felt heavy — like grief pressing down from every corner.
"She needs rest," Maria had said.
But all I could see was the color fading from Mona's cheeks, the way her breaths came slower each time.
"I'll talk to him," I muttered, standing abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp enough to make Maria flinch.
"Maya—"
"I just need to understand," I cut in. My voice trembled, though I tried to steady it. "If he's changing her medicine again, I deserve to know why."
Before she could stop me, I was already down the corridor.
The orphanage smelled of soap and warm bread — the same scent that once meant safety. Now, it only made my stomach twist. The hallways echoed with soft laughter from children, footsteps of nuns, the distant toll of the chapel bell. None of it reached me.
I found the doctor near the nurse's office, speaking quietly with a nun over a clipboard. He turned when he heard my steps — middle-aged, clean-shaven, the kind of face that looked practiced in sympathy.
"Miss Demione!" He greeted in surprise. "I don't except you already he—"
"What did you gave her?" I snapped.
He blinked. "Pardon me?"
"The new medication. Maria said you changed it again. She's weaker than before, she can't even open her eyes now."
He sighed — that careful kind of sigh doctors use when they want you to calm down. "Her pain has been increasing. The last treatment was too strong for her liver to handle. This new one is lighter, more stable—"
"Stable?" I almost laughed. "She looks like she's fading!"
He lowered his voice, glancing around at the passing nurses. "Please, Miss Demione, not here."
But I didn't care about here. Or politeness.
"She was talking to me a week ago," I said, my voice shaking. "She laughed. She said she wanted to paint again. And now she can barely breathe without a machine! What the hell are you doing to her?" My voice on the edge of breaking, my hand clutching the edge of the table tightly. I will fucking slammed this table on his head.
The doctor's composure cracked, just for a second. "You have to understand—there's no cure for what she has, only relief. We're keeping her comfortable."
"Comfortable?" The word hit something deep in me. "You mean you're giving up."
"Doctor" I hissed sharply, my eyes turn wild staring straight to his soul.
"I gave you my trust, my sister gave you her last hope, that all she have left for her broke—…". Fuck, my throat already tightened.
I wanted to scream, to tear the clipboard from his hands and force him to find another way — a better drug, a miracle, anything. But my throat wouldn't open.
Instead, I whispered, "She's all I have left."
The doctor looked at me, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes — pity, maybe, or regret.
"And if you intend to fail us—please just say it already…". I whispered.
She just need peace.
I turned before he could say another word. The hall swam in and out of focus as I walked back toward Mona's room. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the walls themselves were mourning with me.
By the time I reached her door, my hands were trembling. The scent of lilies met me again — soft, suffocating.
She was still there, unmoving, the machines whispering their steady lullaby.
"Peace," I muttered under my breath. "They always say that like it's something we can afford."
I stayed by her side all day.
The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, leaving the windows streaked with silver. I sat on the small chair beside Mona's bed, the box of paper stars resting on my lap like a fragile weight.
I talked to her quietly, at first out of habit, then because the words seemed to need an outlet.
Day Two.
I couldn't watch her fade another day.
The sun had barely risen, pale and uncertain, spilling light across the edges of the hospital bed. Mona lay still, tubes and monitors humming around her like a small, obedient orchestra.
I made my decision quietly, with a weight in my chest that pressed like stone. I stopped all the medication the doctor had given her. It had to stop — it was doing more harm than good. I didn't wait for permission, didn't call anyone. I just… acted.
Maria did try to feed her by herself, but they might gave her the pills through anything they brought in this room.
Sister Maria tried to feed her by herself, moving carefully, gently, as if Mona were made of glass. Spoon by spoon, she coaxed the liquid into her lips, humming softly under her breath — the same quiet tune she'd sung when I was a child.
I watched, tense, every muscle coiled. I wanted to reach over, to stop her, to check every bite. But Maria's hands were steady, practiced, and I hesitated.
Still, a cold worry clung to my chest. They could have slipped the pills in anything they brought into this room.
A cup of tea. A small bit of juice. A spoonful of mashed vegetables. Every gesture seemed innocent, but every gesture felt like a trap.
"Maria," I said, voice low, almost shaking. "Did they… give her anything else this morning? Anything I don't know about?"
She paused, eyes soft but firm. "No, child. Nothing that will harm her. Only what is necessary."
I swallowed, not trusting my own heartbeat. "Even if it's just a sip of tea? They could've—"
Maria placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Maya. I'm watching. I've been here every second she's awake. You don't need to fear the world while you sit here."
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the trembling ease slightly. Still, my fingers stayed curled tightly around the edge of the blanket.
Mona's chest rose slowly, almost imperceptibly. She was so fragile, yet stubborn, a quiet defiance in her shallow breathing that refused to let me go.
At night.
The Princess and the Frog — it was always her favourite story. A young girl with unshakable dreams, with fire in her heart and light in her eyes. A girl who knew what love meant, what responsibility cost, what it truly felt like to live for something.
All those things are everything my sister will never have.
I read it aloud, page by page, my voice steady against the quiet hum of the machines. The TV flickered dimly in the corner, casting soft blue shadows across her face. The tubes at her side whispered their constant rhythm, and every breath she took sounded like a small battle won.
Her eyelids fluttered, barely open, but I could tell she was listening. Maybe not to the words, but to the sound of them — the story she once knew by heart.
"…and Tiana looked up at the stars," I read softly, "knowing that even when dreams take a little longer, they still come true."
I paused. My throat tightened.
"Mona," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, "you always said one day you'd go to Scotland, right? Walk by the lochs, wear that plaid scarf you loved, drink hot cocoa in the cold rain."
I still can hear her giggling echoing in my ears, when she holding up a small plane that she found in the secondhand shop. The sound she made, trying to imagine taking a trip over the sea to Scotland.
She didn't move, but her lips trembled faintly — the smallest flicker, like a breath between worlds.
I closed the book. The page still smelled faintly of vanilla paper and childhood.
"Maybe… you'll still get there," I said. "Just—maybe not the same way."
Sitting in front of Maria, praying with all my own hearts and trust—at least let her awake.
At least let her know her sister is here.
At least Mona still have Maya.
Day Three
The email came early that morning — a soft ping in the middle of the silence.
I stared at it for a long time before I dared to open it.
"We're pleased to inform you that your portfolio has been accepted. You can start this week."
The words blurred for a second. Not because I was crying — I refused to — but because I hadn't let myself believe it could actually happen. The restaurant. The one I'd think of, the one that actually saw my future with it, at least for my sister's medicine costs and my tuition in Germany.
I can take care of her while working and studying.
I looked toward Mona's bed. Her breathing was steady, fragile but alive. The IV light blinked like a dying star beside her.
I should've been happy.
Instead, guilt pressed against my chest.
When I told Sister Maria, her reaction was quieter than I expected. No congratulations, no smile. Just that long, slow breath she takes when she's trying not to sound disappointed.
"You can't take her there, no one will take care of her, Maya."
"Why not? Mona needs a quiet place, a good medical condition. Everything, whatever she needs, is all in Germany."
"Jesus Maya.." she rubbed her temple.
"She's not a child, Maria. She's my sister."
My voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
For a moment, the silence between us was unbearable. The faint hum of the machines, the rustle of her robes — everything too loud, too close.
"I can't leave her here," I whispered finally. "Not again. Not after everything."
She didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy as the air before a storm.
Then, softly, almost trembling, she stepped closer.
"Swear to me," she whispered, her voice quivering yet sharp enough to cut. "Swear that you'll take care of her. No more skipping medicine, no more pretending you're strong enough to fight the whole world alone. No more lying to yourself that you can keep her safe without help. Swear to me, Maya…"
Her eyes locked into mine — fierce, pleading, desperate in the way only love born from faith could be. I could see the exhaustion behind them, the fear she tried so hard to hide beneath that black veil and quiet dignity.
My throat burned; words crawled up slowly, jagged, almost breaking apart before they could leave.
"I swear," I said hoarsely, "under my name… under everything I have left."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The machines hummed, the clock ticked, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then Sister Maria exhaled — a sound that was half relief, half resignation.
"Then go," she said quietly. "And may God forgive you if you break it."
It was close to midnight when I heard it — the faint rustle of sheets, the softest whisper breaking through the steady beeping of the monitor.
"Maya…"
I froze. For a second, I thought I was dreaming again — one of those cruel ones where she'd wake, smile, and vanish the moment I reached her.
But then her hand moved — weak, trembling — and her eyes fluttered open.
"Mona?" My voice cracked. I leaned closer, afraid that even breathing too loudly could make her slip away again.
She smiled faintly, her lips pale but warm. "You look… tired."
A breath escaped me — half laugh, half sob. "You've been asleep for days, and that's the first thing you say?"
She chuckled, barely audible. "Still the same… bossy sister."
I shook my head, brushing her hair off her forehead. "You scared me to death."
"I'm sorry." Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, slow and hazy. "But it's… quiet now. Not like before."
I swallowed hard. "That's because I stopped the medicine."
She turned her head weakly toward me. "You did?"
"Yes," I whispered. "They were making you worse."
Maria's going to be mad," she murmured, smiling faintly.
"She already is."
Her fingers reached out, brushing mine. "You're taking me away, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"To Germany?"
I nodded. "There's a hospital there… better doctors. And a place where I can work. It's not perfect, but it's us."
"We can have the best chemotherapy for you, everything you need is there, everything…"
I smiled at her, a forceful one that it reached my ears, brightly one.
"But she is my everything at here"
"Will mother will be there too?"
…
…
…
The question landed softly, like a raindrop, but it hit something deep inside me.
For a moment, I couldn't answer. My mouth opened, but no sound came out — only the faint hum of the night and the quiet breathing between us.
Mother had been gone for years now. Not dead — just gone, like smoke fading from the edges of a candle flame, after our father turn crazy and left. No letters, no voice, no trace. Just the ghost of a woman who used to sing us lullabies through hunger and storms.
I looked at Mona, her face pale under the dim light, eyes glassy but still carrying that impossible faith — the kind of faith children keep even after they grow old enough to know better.
So I smiled. I lied. But I made it a beautiful lie.
"Maybe," I whispered. "Maybe she'll be there. Maybe she's waiting for us already — in Germany. Somewhere quiet. Maybe near the river."
Mona's lips curved faintly, as if she could see it — the river, the soft hills, a house that never really existed. "Will she still recognize us?"
"Of course," I said, brushing my fingers against her hair. "She'll say your name first. She'll hug you so tight you'll complain about not being able to breathe."
Mona laughed, weak but real — a sound that cracked through the stillness like sunlight through frost.
"And she'll cook?"
"Yes," I said softly. "Your favorite cookie. And she'll yell at me for staying up too late. Just like before."
She nodded slowly, her eyes starting to close. "Then I want to go, Maya. I want to see her again."
I swallowed the ache in my chest and whispered, "You will."
When her breathing slowed into sleep, I kept talking — more for myself than for her.
About Germany, the restaurant that finally accepted me, the small apartment near the train station that might smell like bread and coffee, and the air that would taste like beginnings instead of endings.
Maybe she'd believe me. Maybe I could, too — if I said it enough times.
When Mona finally drifted into sleep, the room fell silent — too silent.
The soft whirr of the oxygen machine faded into the background, swallowed by the dark.
I sat there for a long time, motionless, staring at her face under the weak orange glow of the night lamp. Her lashes trembled even in sleep, her fingers still curled as if clinging to a dream that might slip away.
And then it came.
At first, just a tremor — a slow tightening in my throat, a sting behind my eyes.
Then the tears broke free, one by one, soundless, sliding down my cheeks like something sacred I didn't deserve to feel.
I didn't sob. I couldn't.
The kind of grief sitting inside me was quieter — the kind that swells until it fills your lungs and makes every breath feel like drowning.
My hands pressed against my face, and I could taste salt on my lips.
I held Mona hand in mine, clutching at it like a lifeline.
My self-control is breaking down, every promises, everything…
I bent forward, my forehead touched the cold edge of the bed.
The sheets smelled faintly of disinfectant and soap — and of Mona, still alive, still here.
"Please," I whispered, not sure to whom. "Please, not her."
The lamp flickered, a shadow cutting across the wall like a heartbeat.
Outside, the rain began again, tapping against the window in rhythm — steady, patient, cruelly calm.
And I let it happen — every tear, every quiet shake of my shoulders.
Because the dark didn't judge. It just listened.
Day 4
The sky hung low over the orphanage, bruised with leftover rain. I had packed everything — Mona's blanket, her small sketchbook, the jar of folded stars. She was still asleep, her breathing faint but steady, as I wheeled her toward the taxi waiting by the gate.
The streets were half-awake, the city not yet decided if it wanted to live another day.
Our train to Germany was leaving in less than an hour.
At the station, everything felt too familiar — the sound of steel, the smell of rain on concrete, the faint hum of people moving with purpose.
And then I saw her.
At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks again — maybe exhaustion, maybe memory bleeding through. But no. She was there. The old woman from the last trip.
She still wearing the same gray coat.
A small bag beside her.
A bunch of flowers— daisies, lavender laying on her lap.
Only this time….
She wasn't moving.
Her hands — pale, veined — still cupped it gently, as if she were afraid to let go even in death.
I froze. My body refused to move, but my eyes couldn't look away.
A passerby whispered to a guard nearby, and soon a pair of paramedics approached. Their steps were careful, almost reverent.
"She's gone," one of them murmured quietly. "Probably just… fell asleep."
The flower slipped from her lap and rolled toward me.
I bent down and picked it up. It smelled faintly of soap and old rain.
I didn't cry. I couldn't. My chest just… hollowed.
A strange calm settled in — the kind that comes after every loss, when your body hasn't yet decided whether to break.
Mona stirred behind me, her voice weak.
"Maya? What's happening?"
I turned, forcing a smile. "Nothing, love. Just… someone waiting for her train."
I placed the flower gently in the box of paper stars the woman once gave me — a small universe now holding her last goodbye.
Her smile still haunting my mind, but the one with hopeful, and somehow—acceptance in peace.
When the whistle blew, I pushed the wheelchair forward. The train doors slid open with a soft hiss.
As we stepped inside, I looked back one last time — at the bench, at the flowerless lap, at the quiet corner of the station where love had come full circle.
And I thought — maybe she finally found her son.
Maybe some goodbyes aren't endings, just returns.
As the train rattled over the tracks, I kept my eyes on Mona, watching her small chest rise and fall beneath the blanket. Every breath she took was a tiny victory, fragile but stubborn — much like she had always been.
I tried to imagine the world she would grow into, beyond the hospital rooms, beyond the IVs and machines, beyond the endless afternoons of whispered stories and quiet prayers.
Even now, weak and fragile, she held a spark I couldn't extinguish. That spark — fierce, quiet, enduring — was everything I loved about her.
"I hope… one day," I whispered softly, almost to myself, "you'll see how strong you really are. That the world isn't only pain and waiting rooms, but also laughter, music, light… everything I want for you."
Her fingers twitched, brushing mine unconsciously. I squeezed them gently, as if passing along the hope I couldn't yet put into words.
She is not just a patient. Not just a child to protect. She is Mona — stubborn, brilliant, alive — and I refused to let the world take her spark, no matter how many battles we had to fight to keep it glowing.
Even through the fear, the sleepless nights, the guilt that tugged at my chest, I believed in her. I had to.
Because hope, like love, was something you chose to carry — and I chose to carry it for both of us.
I love you, Mona…