Old Debt Of Fate

17 years ago.

The hospital room wasn't just luxurious—it was the kind of luxury that only the impossibly rich could afford. Moonlight spilled through tall windows dressed with delicate silken drapes, bathing the marble floors and gold-trimmed furniture in a pale, ethereal glow. The walls weren't just painted; they were hand-carved with floral patterns that seemed almost alive in the dim lighting.

The scent of fresh lilies mixed faintly with the sterile undertone of a medical suite, reminding that even in all this splendor, life and death still brushed shoulders.

A woman lay sleeping on the grand, oversized hospital bed. Her features were delicate, pale from exhaustion, yet framed by silky strands of midnight-black hair that curled against her pillow. Despite the tiredness carved into her face, there was a smile—faint but real—a mother's smile.

The kind of expression that carried both pain and overwhelming love all at once.