Amaira entered the hospital as she had done countless times before, the familiar stench of disinfectant, decay, and human exhaustion washing over her the moment she stepped inside, a scent so deeply embedded in her memory now that it no longer startled her but instead lingered like something she had unknowingly accepted as part of her existence. She walked through the dim corridor without hesitation, her steps quiet and habitual, and made her way to the same room she visited every single day, a room that had become less of a destination and more of a ritual.
Inside, on a worn-out bed, lay a woman who appeared to be somewhere between twenty-five and may be older, though in this world age was nothing more than a cruel guessing game, because when survival itself became uncertain, birthdays turned meaningless and years lost their identity. Amaira sat down beside her with a gentle, practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes, her gaze immediately drifting to the machines surrounding the bed, blinking softly like distant stars, numbers shifting in patterns she could never understand, though she had learned long ago that understanding was not necessary to hope.
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