Hana's shoulders trembled violently as she hugged herself, her breath coming in uneven gasps. The cold air felt suffocating, her vision blurred with unshed tears.
She had pulled out her phone out of instinct, but the screen remained lifeless—dead, just like the hope clawing at her chest.
"I have to tell Mom…" she whispered brokenly, staring at the dark screen as if it could somehow bring her mother's warmth to her.
But how could she? How could she tell their mother that her beloved son, the one who had always been her pride, her comfort, was dying?
How could she tell her that the boy who she used to carry her on his back when he scraped his knee, was now lying there, helpless, burning up with a deadly infection?
A sob tore through her throat.
If only she hadn't come to the city. If only she hadn't been so reckless.
He wouldn't be here.
He would have been safe.
Safe at home. With Mom.