The phone rang at 3:47 a.m.
No good news ever comes at that hour.
My hands trembled before I even answered.
"You should come," the nurse said softly.
The drive to the hospital felt unreal.
The roads were empty.
The world asleep.
My world ending.
She was lying still when I entered.
Smaller than I remembered.
Her breathing shallow.
I sat beside her and took her hand.
It was colder than usual.
"It's me," I whispered, even though she no longer knew who that was.
Her eyelids fluttered slightly.
I leaned closer.
"You don't have to remember me," I said through tears. "I remember enough for both of us."
Her breathing slowed.
The machines beeped gently.
I rested my forehead against her hand like I did as a child when I wanted forgiveness.
"You were my whole world," I whispered.
For a moment — just a second — her fingers tightened faintly around mine.
Then they relaxed.
The machine made a long, steady sound.
And just like that…
The woman who gave me life left without knowing who I was.
But I knew who she was.
And maybe that was enough.