Clara
When the nurse closed the door behind me, the world ceased to exist in everything that was not that room. The sound of the monitor marking the pulse was constant, but irregular, as if it was also tired. The smell of disinfectant was mixed with something heavier, something that is only perceived when life is sustained by machines.
My father was there, smaller, more fragile.
Pale skin, almost transparent under white light. The tubes, the cables, the oxygen. I had never seen his body so still. He always took up space, always filled the rooms with his deep voice and deep laughter. Now he seemed reduced to assisted breathing.
I approached slowly, as if fearing that any sudden movement might break the delicate balance that held him here.
"Dad," I whispered, and my voice didn't sound
