The unease settled in my stomach as I drove to the clinic.
The roads were familiar, but today they seemed longer, more winding, as if they too were unsure of where they led.
The clinic was quiet, the waiting area empty.
I was ushered into a small room where the doctor awaited, a recording device already set up on the desk.
“This is what she wanted you to hear,” the doctor said, gesturing to the device.
I nodded again, my fingers trembling as I reached out to press ‘play.’
The room seemed to hold its breath as the recording began, my daughter’s voice filling the air, her words a bridge between the past and the present.
Her voice was clear, yet it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things.
With each word, the room seemed to shrink, pulling me closer to her world.
For a moment, I was there with her, feeling her presence despite the sterile walls around me.
