I was sitting alone in the dim living room, the clock barely inching past ten in the morning.
Every minute felt like an hour, stretched thin by the grief that filled every corner of the house.
We had just buried my daughter two hours ago, and the weight of her absence lingered heavily.
The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock.
I found myself staring at the muted patterns on the wallpaper, trying to find solace in their familiarity.
The day was supposed to be about mourning, yet there I was, caught in a storm of emotions that refused to settle.
Then the phone rang.
It was an unexpected call from our family doctor.
Her voice was calm yet insistent, a contrast that made my skin prickle with unease.
She wanted me to come to the clinic immediately; there was something I needed to see.
