6 Months Later.
I step into the room and close the door behind me.
The smell hits first. The air carries a faint smell of antiseptic.
The walls are white. White sheets are tucked tightly around the bed, their corners sharp and untouched by anything careless. A monitor hums softly somewhere nearby. White light hums faintly above everything like it is alive.
She lies in the bed, unmoving.
Her eyes are open.
But they do not follow anything.
A nurse steps in, her shoes soft against the tiled floor. She carries a small tray, careful not to make too much noise, though there is nothing here to disturb.
"Time for your medication," she says gently.
But there is no response.
The woman's gaze remains fixed ahead, unblinking.
The nurse pauses, then sets the tray down beside her. She lifts a small cup, guiding it carefully to the woman's lips.
"Just a little," she murmurs. The woman does not resist.
But she does not help either.
The liquid slips past her lips slowly.
"She used to fight it," another nurse says quietly from the doorway.
The first glances back briefly. "Not anymore."
"She has a visitor today," the second nurse adds, but there is no reaction.
The first nurse adjusts the blanket, smoothing it down over still limbs.
"She won't respond," she says softly. "She hasn't in a while."
They step back toward the door, their voices lowering as they move.
The air is colder than the last time I was here.
Nia is lying still.
Watching nothing.
"Nia."
I say her name gently, like I always do.
But there is no response.
That's alright.
She doesn't always answer.
I pull the chair closer and sit carefully.
Not too close at first.
I've learned that.
"I brought something for you," I say softly.
I set the flask on the small table beside her bed and begin to open it.
The scent rises immediately.
Warm and familiar.
"You used to like this," I continue, glancing at her face. "You remember, don't you?"
She doesn't move.
That's okay.
She just needs time.
I take the spoon and dip it into the food, lifting a small portion.
The steam curls upward.
I bring it to my mouth, taste it, and it's still warm.
I nod slightly to myself.
Then turn back to her.
"I promised you I would protect you," I say quietly. "And I did."
My hand moves without hesitation.
I reach out and place my fingers gently along her jaw, holding her face so she will look at me.
"It's okay," I tell her. "I'm here."
Her skin is warm. She doesn't pull away.
Which is good.
I lift the spoon again and bring it closer.
"You need to eat," I say gently.
But her lips don't move, neither do her eyes shift.
I wait just a moment longer than necessary.
Then I tilt the spoon slightly, guiding it toward her mouth.
She doesn't resist.
But she doesn't accept either.
I hold it there.
"She'll be fine," I assure myself quietly.
"She just needs more time."
The thought settles easily.
I soften my grip slightly, my thumb brushing against her cheek.
For a moment, just a moment, I think I see something in her eyes. Almost like fear. But it is gone just as quickly.
"You don't have to be afraid anymore," I murmur. "Everything is fine now."
I watch her closely.
Looking for any reaction.
Anything at all.
But there is nothing.
That's alright.
These things take time.
I draw the spoon back slightly.
Then forward again, patiently.
"Open," I say softly with a smile.
"There you are," I whisper.
I bring the spoon closer again.
Behind me, faint through the door, I can hear voices, muffled and distant.
"It's sad," a nurse whispers. "What happened to her?"
The first nods slightly. "The fire?"
"Yes."
They fall silent for a moment.
The words blur together.
I try not to pay them much attention.
But then the second nurse leans a little closer to the other.
"I heard that woman beside her…" she hesitates, lowering her voice further. "She was there that night too."
The first nurse nods again. "She was. They said she tried to help. She tried to get her out."
"Tried," the second repeats.
There is another pause.
"Well, they also said she wasn't well before it happened."
The first nurse glances toward the bed. "Some kind of mental condition."
"She still has them?"
"They think so."
The second nurse straightens slightly. "That must make it harder."
The first nods. "It does."
A final glance toward the patient.
"I feel bad for her," the second nurse murmurs. "First she lost her mother to the fire… and now her daughter is in here like this."
I turn and look at them. The first nurse does not respond anymore, and they step out.
The door closes softly behind them.
The room returns to quiet again.
And my focus returns where it should be.
On Nia.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
I smooth her hair back gently.
"You don't have to do anything," I tell her softly.
"I'll do it for you."
—What was given in care was taken in turn, and the child became the keeper of the child.