I don't want to live

As awareness slowly returned, Amira stirred beneath the unfamiliar sheets. Her throat burned dry as desert air and no sound came when she tried to speak. So she lay still, her body heavy, eyes fluttering open to the soft light spilling across the walls. The room was foreign.

She scanned the space with wide, blinking eyes. The ceiling bore water stains. The wooden beams above looked old, cracked with time. It smelled faintly of herbs and dust, like the kind of place built for forgotten people and long-lingering ghosts.

The door creaked open with agonizing slowness.

An elderly woman shuffled in, carrying something wrapped in a cloth. Her movements were deliberate slow, but not uncertain. Amira's gaze tracked her, too weak to lift her head, but too alert to look away.

Then the woman saw her eyes open.

"You're finally awake!" the woman said, voice warm, cracked like old parchment but layered with relief.