The day of the visit arrives, and I find myself standing at the edge of Jessica’s world.
The hospital is a blend of sterile whites and muted greys, the kind of place that feels both temporary and unending.
As I walk through the corridors, I’m struck by the familiarity of it, the way it hasn’t changed much over the years.
Jessica is waiting in her room, her face a mix of recognition and something else I can’t quite place.
“Hi,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Hi,” I reply, my own smile tentative.
The room is filled with the hum of machinery, a reminder of the journey she’s been on.
We talk about small things at first, the weather, the drive down, anything to fill the space between us.
But the conversation inevitably steers towards the past, the day that changed everything.
As we talk, I realize that the story I thought I knew is only part of the truth.
