Chapter 7 - Room 304
The glass automatic doors slid open silently as we stepped into the climate-controlled lobby. The air smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic. A night nurse behind a curved marble desk looked up, recognizing Clara immediately.
"Mrs. Vance—ah, Mrs. Arthur," the nurse corrected herself, standing up. "We weren't expecting you at this hour."
"I need to see my husband, Sarah," Clara said, her voice steady despite her pale appearance. "And these are his daughter, Maya, and her husband, Glen."
The nurse hesitated, glancing at Glen and me with a flicker of confusion. "Mrs. Arthur, Dr. Vance left strict instructions regarding visitors for Room 304. Only authorized—"
"I am his daughter," I interrupted, stepping forward, my voice carrying a quiet authority that left no room for debate. "And I am going to see my father right now."
Seeing the intensity in my eyes and Clara’s silence, the nurse reluctantly pressed a button behind the desk, unlocking the heavy security doors leading to the residential wing.
We walked down a long, carpeted corridor lined with soft, warm lighting. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step felt heavier than the last. Six years of grief, six years of believing I was an orphan, six years of missing the man who had raised me—it all distilled down to the door at the end of the hallway: Room 304.
Clara reached out and gently pushed the door open.
The room inside was large and comfortable, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark forest outside. Soft blue light emitted from a heart monitor sitting on a side table.
In the center of the room, lying on an adjustable bed, was my father.
He looked so small. The vibrant, tall man who used to carry me on his shoulders was thin, his silver hair long and neatly brushed back. A soft oxygen tube rested beneath his nose.
I dropped my bag. Tears filled my eyes, blinding me for a moment. I walked slowly to the side of the bed and sank to my knees, taking his weak, cool hand in both of mine.
"Dad?" I whispered.
The heart monitor’s steady beat quickened slightly. Beep... beep... beep-beep.
Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. His pale blue eyes were hazy at first, searching the darkened room, until they finally settled on my face.
He blinked once. Twice. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, tracking down the deep wrinkles of his cheek.
May you like
"Maya...?" His voice was a paper-thin rasp, barely louder than a breath.
"It's me, Dad," I sobbed, pressing his frail hand against my cheek. "It's Maya. I'm here. I found you."
