Meanwhile, Little Trizha wandered the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital.
Her expression was a vibrant tapestry of rainbows and sunshine, a stark, jarring contrast to the sterile, somber environment that surrounded her.
She skipped along the linoleum, unaware that she was walking through a building stained with the invisible weight of unforgettable horrors and quiet, memorial miracles.
To her, the world was still a natural facade—a child's sanctuary where she knew nothing of grief, only alphabets, the taste of strawberry sweets, and the rhythmic cheerfulness of her own heartbeat.
Each step she took was nearly silent.
Her bare feet moved across the cold floor with the practiced stealth of a sneaky little ninja, navigating a landscape of unprecedented history and adult sorrows.
The further she led herself into the heart of the ward, the further she drifted from the safety of the lobby.
Her route felt endless, stretching out into the vast, unexplored territory that only a child's imagination can map.
Eventually, she came to a sudden halt.
The silence of the hallway was punctured by two voices drifting from a partially ajar door.
One belonged to a man, a father whose voice trembled with a desperate need to keep moving forward.
The other belonged to a woman, a mother who sounded as though she had reached a wall she could not climb.
"C‐calm down, please, just calm down..." the father pleaded, his voice cracking like dry wood. "She hasn't given up yet, don't worry. Our girl is a fighter... she'll keep fighting if we just stay strong—"
"Be quiet!" the mother shrieked, a sound of pure, jagged agony. "I've already lost one daughter! I am standing here watching her twin sister slip through my fingers, and you tell me to be quiet?"
Little Trizha leaned against the cold metal of the door frame, peeking into the room.
Inside, she saw two adults locked in an argument more intense than anything she had ever seen.
She didn't know how to be truly quiet yet, but her small stature and the sheer volume of their grief made her effectively invisible.
She watched them with wide, curious eyes, wondering if this was another one of those "reality shows" her non-blood related grandmother watched on the big television.
But there were no cameras here—only a reality that was far too real.
"She has stage 4 cancer, for God's sake!" the mother cried out, clutching her head as if it might shatter. "She's been suffering right under our noses, and we didn't even notice until it was too late!"
"I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" the father stammered, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "I was busy with work, I wasn't there... but I'm going to fix this. I'll take responsibility! So please, just calm down... and put that down... put it down, slowly..."
Little Trizha's brow furrowed in confusion.
On the television, the "big people" always ended up hugging and forgiving each other after they yelled.
But this wasn't following the script.
The father looked cautious, his eyes darting with a primal fear she couldn't understand.
The mother stood rigid, her posture menacing. In her right hand, she held a strange, heavy-looking "toy."
Little Trizha tilted her head.
She had seen toys like that before—they were usually bright orange or green and fired cold water to soak the neighborhood kids during the hot summer months.
"Hey, no, no! Wait!" the father cried out, his voice rising to a frantic pitch.
"I've had enough of this," the mother whispered, her voice suddenly, terrifyingly calm. "I've always wanted this... a family, twins, and you by my side. But I guess... I guess I messed up everything, didn't I? Just like I always do. If I can't even let my own children live... why should I? Why should ?!"
Little Trizha almost stepped into the room.
She wanted to ask them why they were so sad, or perhaps tell them where the nearest ice cream stand was to make them feel better.
But something in the air—a heavy, static tension—held her back.
The mother slowly raised the grey toy and pressed it against the side of her own head.
Little Trizha watched, mesmerized.
"Why are water-tears falling from her eyes?" She wondered. "And why do her eyes look so... empty? Like a doll's eyes?"
Now that the toy was closer, she recognized it more clearly.
It wasn't a water gun.
It was a real gun, just like the ones in the loud action movies her adoptive father watched late at night.
A surge of excitement hit her.
"Is this a movie?!" she tragically thought, her heart racing. "Wow! A real movie being filmed right here! I can't wait to see it on the TV! I have to go tell Mama!"
She turned and sprinted away from the door, her little feet thudding softly as she rushed back toward the lobby.
But she had only gone a few yards when a sound tore through the hospital—a loud, sharp, percussive crack that made the very air vibrate.
It was so loud it made her flinch, her shoulders hunching as she skidded to a stop.
She looked back over her shoulder.
From the room she had just left, the sound of the father's voice rose again, but it wasn't pleading anymore.
It was a rhythmic, soul-crushing wail of mourning.
Nurses and doctors blurred past her, their white coats flapping like the wings of startled birds as they rushed toward the room as if the world were ending.
She stood there for a second, confused.
They must be really good actors, she thought with a shrug.
She decided it was just part of the show and continued her trek through the hallways.
A few corridors later, she stopped again. A doctor stumbled out of a nearby room, looking frantic.
"I‐I'll be right back!" the doctor shouted to someone inside, his voice strained. "Stay here! Don't you dare leave this room, and whatever you do, don't listen to what's happening in the hall!"
The doctor brushed past Little Trizha, barely glancing at her as he barked, "Go back to the lobby, kid! It's not safe here!"
He vanished around the corner, leaving the door to the room swinging wide.
Curiosity, as always, acted as a tether.
Little Trizha crept inside. The room was flooded with a blinding, white midday light from a large window.
As her vision adjusted, she saw another person.
They looked to be about her own age, sitting upright in a high hospital bed.
This person was strikingly different; their skin was a pale, translucent white that seemed to reflect the sunlight, and they had no hair at all—their head was smooth and bare.
They had been staring out at the clouds, but as the door creaked, they turned their head slowly to look at Trizha.
"Are you a 'norce'?" they asked.
Their voice was thin and raspy, like dry leaves skittering on pavement. Their gaze softened for a moment before sharpening back into a quiet, weary curiosity.
For a moment, the heavy gloom of the hospital seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile, quiet connection between two children who were standing on opposite sides of a very dark curtain.