The night at the hospital was one of those where time seemed to drag on cruelly. The cold lights from the hallway filtered through the room's windows, casting long shadows on the white floor. Sitting in an armchair beside Giulia's bed, I watched her sleep. Her little face flushed with fever, her breathing heavier than usual. Isabella sat in the other armchair, her knees pulled to her chest, trying to stay awake while absently rubbing her own arms. The silence between us was too full — of questions, of fears, of memories I avoided facing.
The same disease. The same scenario. The same pain.
But now it was my daughter. And I didn't know how to stop the fear from taking over.
I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. I couldn't fall apart. Not there. Not in front of her. Not in
