The hospital corridor stretched before Mira Farrow.
The air smelled sharp. Full of disinfectant, mixing with the faint sweetness of old flowers from the gift shop down the hall. It made Mira's stomach twist.
She leaned against the wall. Her fingers digging into the peeling paint. Trying to stay upright as the doctor's voice echoed in her head.
"Lila's condition… it's progressing faster than we anticipated," he had said. His voice had been low, and careful. Like words could break her.
She remembered how he wouldn't meet her eyes. Just stared down at the chart in his hands.
"The degeneration is spreading through her nervous system. There's no cure. We can slow it, maybe, but we can't stop it."
Mira's throat had gone dry. She could barely speak. "How long?"
The doctor hesitated, adjusting his glasses. "A month," he said finally. "Maybe two months if we're lucky."
