No one expected anything to change anymore.
After eight long months, hope had become something fragile—spoken only in whispers, if at all.
Emily Carter lay motionless in Room 417 of St. Anne’s Medical Center, her body supported by machines that hummed softly day and night. Tubes traced gentle lines across her face. A steady monitor blinked green beside her bed, marking the slow rhythm of a life that refused to leave—but also refused to return.
She was seven months pregnant.
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