Maya’s hand trembled inside mine. For years, that hand had been my anchor, but now, it felt as fragile as a withered leaf in autumn. She stared down at our joined fingers, a heavy, suffocating silence stretching between us in the sterile hospital corridor.

“Arjun, you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We signed the papers. You have your own life now. You shouldn’t have to carry my burdens anymore.”

“Your burdens?” My voice rose, thick with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. Regret? Anger? Fear? “Maya, look at you. You’ve lost your hair. You’re sitting alone in a ward at the Semmelweis Clinic, hooked up to an IV, and you’re telling me it’s nothing? Please, just tell me the truth.”