Chapter 1: The Window That Stayed
There is a small window in the room. Not large enough to be called generous, not small enough to be ignored. It sits there like a quiet negotiator between two worlds, the one inside and the one that refuses to stop existing outside. Tonight, the light enters through it carefully, almost respectfully, as if aware that this room does not welcome brightness. The walls are dim, the curtains half-drawn, the air carrying that unmistakable stillness of recovery, of bodies healing and minds waiting. My mother lies on the bed. The room is kept dark for her eyes. Light, they say, would hurt. And so darkness becomes medicine, and silence becomes routine. But the window does not agree. Through it, I can see a slice of sky, unbothered, uninjured, and wildly alive. A bird crosses it once in a while, as if signing attendance. Buildings stand in the distance, sunlit and confident, like they’ve never known what it means to pause. And I sit here, on a chair that has held more versions of m...