The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. The last time I'll see Angela—the woman who's been a sister to me, a protector, a constant in a world full of uncertainty. The last time I'll see the Society members who took me in, who made me feel like I belonged when I had nothing left. The last time I'll see June—the one who always seemed to understand, the one who stood by me when everything felt so fragile.
A cold, painful lump forms in my throat, and I can feel the sting of tears welling in my eyes. I blink, but it's no use. The rawness of it all is overwhelming.
"It's… it's going to be…" My voice cracks, and I turn my face toward the ceiling, unwilling to let Angela see the tears that threaten to spill.
The weight of the decision presses down on me like a suffocating cloud, and all I want to do is close my eyes and disappear for a moment, to escape the pain of what I know I have to do.
"Hannah..." Angela's voice is soft, comforting, but it cuts through the tension between us. She knows. She knows what I'm feeling, and without a word, she turns her head to the ceiling too, as if offering me a silent understanding, a quiet space to breathe. "You don't have to hurry. Take your time making the decision."
But in my heart, I already know what I have to do.
I don't need more time to think. I don't need more time to wonder if I'm doing the right thing. The need to find my family is sharp, like a blade at my side, cutting through everything else. I have to go. I must find them.
But that means I'll leave this place. I'll leave Angela. I'll leave the people who've become my family. And as much as I long to be with my real family again, I know that this journey, this decision, will come with a price—a price I'm not sure I'm ready to pay.
I think of June then. I think of the way he looked at me earlier, the way he told me I did a good job. A soft pang tugs at my heart. I don't want to say goodbye to him, to anyone here. But it's the price of finding what I've lost.
The tears that I've been holding back are relentless now. I feel them threatening to fall, but I refuse to let them. Not yet.
I swallow hard, blinking away the sting in my eyes, and turn my face back toward Angela, forcing a weak smile.
"I'll go, Angela. I'll find them," I say, my voice barely more than a whisper, but it's steady. "But it doesn't make it any easier. I'll never be able to say goodbye, not really. Not to you… not to them."
Angela shifts on her bed, and I feel her presence beside me like a steady, grounding force. She doesn't say anything at first, just lets the silence fill the room, thick with all the things we can't say.
And in that silence, I make a promise to myself. No matter what happens, I will find my family. But part of me wonders if I will ever be the same again. Will I return here, to the safety of this place, to the people who have given me everything? Or will I step into the unknown, leaving behind everything I've ever known, including June?
The thought is a cold weight I can't shake off. But I know, deep down, there's no turning back now.
Julian pushes open the door to hospital room 805, the soft click of the handle echoing faintly in the quiet hallway. It's 7 p.m. The light from the hallway spills in, casting long shadows across the floor as he steps inside, carrying a bucket of freshly picked flowers. He holds them gently, as if they're fragile, delicate—much like the woman lying in the bed.
Grace is exactly as he left her this morning: still, her chest rising and falling slowly beneath the thin hospital blanket, her face serene in its unbroken peace. Her eyes are closed, her breathing steady but shallow, lost in the calm of unconsciousness. The hum of the machines monitoring her seems to be the only sound in the room, the soft beeping marking time in a way that makes the space feel suspended, frozen.
"Grace, I brought flowers," Julian says quietly, his voice a soft murmur that only the silence seems to answer.
He walks over to the small bedtable beside her, placing the bucket down with a careful hand. The flowers inside the bucket are a vibrant mix of colors—bright yellows, soft pinks, and the crisp whites of lilies, their petals still tight but full of promise.
He takes off his coat, hanging it on the back of the door hanger with a deliberate slowness, almost as if he's trying to avoid disturbing the peaceful stillness that fills the room. The scent of fresh flowers mingles with the sterile air of the hospital, offering a touch of life in this otherwise lifeless place.
Julian pulls the empty vase from the table and begins arranging the flowers, his hands working with practiced precision, placing each stem carefully, filling the empty space with their soft, colorful presence. He pours in the water from the bottle he brought, the clear liquid splashing gently as he watches the flowers settle into the vase. The flowers look fresh and vibrant, their delicate fragrance drifting into the air, a stark contrast to the cold, clinical feel of the hospital room.
He steps back, his gaze lingering on the vase for a moment.
"Good," he murmurs to himself. "The room feels a bit more lively now."
His smile is small but genuine as he looks at the vase, at the tiny pop of color it brings to the otherwise muted space. But then, his eyes move from the flowers to Grace, and something inside him shifts. He's not sure if it's the sight of her pale face, or the heaviness of the silence that fills the room, but a strange ache settles in his chest.
He pulls the chair closer, the soft scrape of metal against the floor breaking the quiet. It's positioned next to the wall where the window is—tonight, the sky is dark, and the stars are hidden behind thick clouds. No snow tonight, just the bite of the cold creeping in through the glass, making the air feel heavy, thick with unspoken words.
"I know you're not really interested in flowers," Julian says with a small laugh, though the sound of it feels hollow in the empty room. He shakes his head, as if amused by his own actions, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. "But I still brought them," he adds, a little softer this time, more for himself than for her.
His smile turns faint as he remembers…
Yes, Grace never really cared much for flowers, did she?
He lets out a quiet sigh, turning his attention back to her, his gaze softening as he watches her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm.
Hannah... he thinks with a small, wistful smile, she's the one who truly never cared for flowers.
For a moment, he lets the silence stretch, filling the space between them with an unspoken tension. He stares at Grace, his mind wandering as he watches her sleep, her face peaceful, untouched by the chaos of the world outside this sterile room.
"Is there anything else you want in the room?" Julian asks quietly, though he already knows the answer.
I'm being hilarious. She's unconscious, unable to answer me. But I still want to… talk to her.
The question is more for himself than for her, a way to fill the silence, to somehow make it seem less profound.
The quiet deepens. The only sound now is the rhythmic beep of the machine, marking time in the stillness. Julian's eyes flicker to the vase again, his heart heavy as he contemplates the weight of everything. The unspoken question of whether she'll ever wake up, of whether things will return to how they once were, hangs in the air, unanswered.
The silence feels deep—impossible to escape.
Three days later, at the crack of dawn, I quietly walk down the staircase, my footsteps barely audible against the cold, hardwood floors. The lobby feels unusually still, almost unnervingly quiet. The refugees had already left for the port yesterday evening, safely escorted by our Society members. I had stayed behind to keep watch, making sure everything was secure while the others made their way out—June included. They must all be asleep now, their weary bodies having returned late last night after the midnight departure.
I push open the entrance door, the rusty creak of the hinges breaking the silence. The sound sends a shiver through me, making me wonder how many years this door has been creaking like this, bearing the weight of so many who have passed through it.
As the door swings open, a rush of cold air greets me, stinging my eyes as the snow continues to fall in thick, gentle flurries. The winter has been relentless, and today feels no different. It's as if the snow will never stop—an endless cascade of white, wrapping the world in silence.