Four weeks.
Twenty- eight nights of waiting. Hoping. Watching Jayson's chest rise and fall like the only rhythm that made sense anymore. The mechanical hiss of the ventilator had become her metronome, marking time in this suspended reality where nothing else seemed to matter.
The hospital room had become Nadia's second home—the hard-backed chair beside his bed permanently molded to the shape of her body. She'd memorized every crack in the ceiling, every hum of the machines, every shift change of the nurses who brought her coffee without asking anymore.
That morning, Nadia kissed his forehead, her lips lingering against his skin, still warm despite everything.
"I'm still here, Jayson," she whispered, the same words she had whispered every day since the accident. "I'm not giving up. Not on you. Not on us."
His face remained serene, unresponsive. The doctors had stopped using words like "when" and started using "if"—if he wakes up, if he recovers. But Nadia refused to adopt their vocabulary of doubt.
Nurse Jasmine entered with quiet efficiency, clipboard in hand. She'd been Jayson's primary nurse since admission, and in those four weeks, she and Nadia had formed a silent alliance.
"Any changes overnight?" Nadia asked, the same question she always began with.
Jasmine shook her head gently. "Vitals are stable. Brain activity remains consistent."
"That's something," Nadia said, trying to inject hope into her voice.
"It is," Jasmine agreed, checking the IV. "You heading out for a bit? You should get some fresh air."
"Just for a few hours," Nadia said, gathering her bag. "I need to... check on some things."
Jasmine nodded knowingly. "I'll keep him safe. And I'll call if anything changes—good or bad."
"Thank you, Jasmine. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'd manage," Jasmine said simply. "You're stronger than you think."
Nadia squeezed Jayson's hand one last time, whispering, "I'll be back soon," before slipping into the hallway.
She overheard a news channel clamouring about the upcoming primaries in few days time. Donovan's face everywhere on billboards as people hailed him to be the winner. Yet amidst this, Nadia hasn't gotten any news from Nexus. Maybe they're not considering inviting her because of the image Herald had painted about her. But it's not over yet.
Stepping outside, the early morning light hit her face as she stepped outside, a stark reminder that the world continued spinning despite her personal nightmare. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and possibility. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face, allowing herself to pretend that this was just an ordinary day.
But it wasn't. And she had work to do. 
---
First stop—Jayson's apartment.
She used the key he'd given her, making sure no one was watching, she slid it into the keyhole, with a crack sound, the door opened.
The place still smelled like him. Sandalwood cologne. The curtains were drawn just like they were when they left. She imagined seeing him walk across from his room to the kitchen. Nadia followed him. But it was just her.
His presence was everywhere—in the half-read book splayed open on the coffee table, in the mug still sitting in the sink, in the jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. As if he'd just stepped out momentarily and would return any second.
Nadia ran her fingers along the spines of his books, remembering how passionately he'd talk about each one. How his eyes would light up when she expressed interest in reading something he loved.
The memory hit her with such force that she had to steady herself against the bookshelf.
She made her way to his desk, the nerve center of his investigations. It was uncharacteristically messy—papers scattered across the surface, sticky notes attached to the edges, a corkboard above lined with clippings and photographs connected by red string. The visual manifestation of his racing mind.
She sat at his desk, tried the old password on his laptop. It worked.
The screen came to life.
There they were—pictures from a time she thought he'd buried. Her in paint-stained shirts, laughing with the sunlight dancing through the window. Him, caught mid-smile, holding her like she was all he ever needed.
"You kept these," she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.
The tears came easy.
She hadn't lost him, not really. Not in the way she thought.
She clicked through the images—their weekend at the Carlsbad Beach, the impromptu picnic when it started raining and they refused to leave, the night they danced on his balcony with no music. Memories she'd forced herself to pack away when he suddenly disappeared three years ago.
A break that never quite ended, but never quite began either. They'd orbited each other cautiously since then, neither willing to completely let go.
In his folders, she found documents, articles, bits and pieces of the larger conspiracy. Notes labeled "Cedric disappearance" Donovan Lewis—Financial Discrepancies" and "Herald Connections." Digital breadcrumbs of the investigation that had put him in that hospital bed.
But then she found it—the flash drive. Orion had given him. Still tucked safely in the drawer beneath a stack of old notebooks.
She stared at it.
Taking one more glance around, she realized Jayson was right. The apartment was a safe heaven, giving the fact that it hasn't been searched yet. 
"I'm going to fix this," she promised the empty apartment. "All of it."
She took the drive. Slipped it into her bag.
There was still work to be done. And her mother needed her.
---
At Unity hospital, her mother, was awake.
Weak, fragile… but smiling when Nadia entered the room. The stark white of the hospital room made her mother's skin look almost translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface like rivers on a map.
"There's my sunshine," her mother said, voice thin but warm.
Nadia didn't let her see the storm behind her eyes. She painted a smile, cracked jokes, combed her mother's thinning hair and let her believe everything was okay.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant reminder of fragility.
"I saw you as a little girl again," her mother said suddenly, between long pauses for breath. Her eyes had drifted to the window, watching the world outside. "With your little bag and notebook, chasing butterflies and dreams. You were so determined, even then."
Nadia laughed softly, memories flooding back. "I still chase them, Mom."
Her mother squeezed her hand, the pressure barely there. "Just don't let them break your wings."
Nadia held back tears. "I won't."
"Promise me something else," her mother said, suddenly serious.
"Anything."
"When I'm gone—"
"Mom, don't talk like that," Nadia interrupted.
"When I'm gone," her mother continued firmly, "don't waste time on grief. Use it for living. For loving." Her eyes drifted closed momentarily, then reopened with effort. "I've had a full life. Made my mistakes. Had my joys. No regrets."
"Mom, please—"
"Just listen, Sunshine." Her mother rarely used her childhood nickname anymore. "Whatever's troubling you—whatever's making those shadows under your eyes—face it head-on. That's how we've always done things, isn't it?"
"We don't break either," Nadia finished for her, their family motto since she was small.
Her mother smiled, satisfied. "That's right."
Nadia stayed longer than usual. Longer because it felt peaceful. And it had been a while since anything felt like that. They reminisced about old family vacations, laughed about Nadia's teenage rebellions, and even watched a game show on the tiny hospital television, making wild guesses at the answers.
When her mother finally drifted to sleep, Nadia kissed her forehead and whispered, "I love you," before quietly leaving the room.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. The weight of everything—Jayson's condition, the conspiracy they'd uncovered, her mother's illness—pressed down on her like a physical force.
Dr. Oliver, her mother's physician, approached with a clipboard in hand.
"Ms. Brown," he greeted her. "I was hoping to catch you."
"How is she really?" Nadia asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
The doctor hesitated. "Stable for now. The new treatment is helping with the pain, but..."
"But it's not a cure."
"No," he admitted. "It's not. However, her spirits seem good today, which counts for a lot."
Nadia nodded, processing. "Thank you for being honest with me."
"Of course." He paused. "You should take care of yourself too. You won't be any help to her if you collapse."
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"Are you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "When was the last time you slept in an actual bed? Or ate something that didn't come from a vending machine?"
Nadia managed a small smile. "Your concern is noted, Doctor."
He shook his head, clearly used to stubborn family members. "Well, my professional advice is to take a break. Even if just for a few hours."
"I'll consider it."
After he left, Nadia checked her phone. Three missed calls from Orion and a text that simply read: "Call me. Important."
She made a mental note to contact him later. Right now, she needed to get back to Jayson.
---
Later that night, she was back at St. Francis, by Jayson's side. The hospital had quieted for the evening, the overhead lights dimmed to a soft glow. Outside the window, the city twinkled like a reflection of the night sky.
She'd brought fresh flowers—daisies, his favorite because they were "honest flowers," whatever that meant. She'd never understood his peculiar reasoning, but it had always made her smile.
"So, I went to your apartment today," she told him, arranging the flowers in a vase on the bedside table. She'd taken to talking to him as if he could hear, the doctors encouraging the practice. "It's a mess, by the way. When you wake up, I'm making you clean it."
She pulled her chair closer to the bed, taking his hand in hers.
"I found the pictures," she continued, her voice softening. "All of them."
She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, remembering.
A nurse passed by the open door, nodding respectfully before continuing on her rounds.
Nadia whispered, leaning closer. "I'm going to finish what you started. I promise you that."
She watched his face for any sign of response, but there was only the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"I miss you," she finally admitted, the words catching in her throat. "I miss your voice. Your laugh. Everything. I miss us."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against their clasped hands.
"Come back to me, Jayson. We have so much unfinished business, you and I."
Then her phone rang.
It was Unity hospital.
Her body went cold.
She picked up, heart hammering. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end was too calm. Too quiet. A voice trained to deliver the worst news imaginable.
"Miss Nadia... you need to come. Your mother—she's passed."
The world tilted.
"No," she said, the word strangled. "No, I just—I was just there... She was fine. She was laughing..."
The voice continued, saying something about "peaceful" and "no pain," but the words didn't register.
She dropped the phone.
Everything after that felt like wind and sound and spinning lights. She was running. Running without remembering how she left. How she reached the hospital.
The nurses were waiting in the hallway outside her mother's room, faces grim and sympathetic.
A white sheet covered a form on the bed that couldn't possibly be her mother. Not her vibrant, storytelling, butterfly-chasing mother.
She couldn't breathe.
Her knees buckled and someone caught her—two nurses, speaking gently, trying to steady her. But Nadia felt like she had shattered from the inside out.
"I want to see her," she managed to say.
"Of course," one of the nurses replied. "Take all the time you need."
The room was eerily quiet without the beeping monitors. They'd been turned off, their job completed. The evening light cast long shadows across the floor.
With trembling hands, Nadia pulled back the sheet.
Her mother's face was peaceful, almost like she was sleeping. But the absence of breath, of life, was unmistakable.
"Mom," Nadia whispered, touching her mother's still-warm cheek. "You weren't supposed to go yet. Not like this."
She sat beside the bed, holding her mother's hand, as if by sheer will she could bring back the pulse that had stopped.
Dr. Oliver appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of professional sympathy.
"Ms. Brown, I am so sorry for your loss. It was... unexpected. She seemed to be responding well to treatment."
Nadia looked up at him, eyes sharpening through her grief. "What happened?"
"Her heart simply stopped," he said, looking down at his clipboard. "Sometimes with illnesses like hers, the system just... gives out."
"Just gives out," she repeated, the words hollow. "Just like that."
"I know this is difficult—"
"Was anyone with her?" Nadia interrupted.
Dr. Oliver hesitated. "A nurse was checking on her. Said your mother was sleeping peacefully one moment, and then the monitors went off."
Something in his hesitation, in the careful way he chose his words, set off alarm bells in Nadia's mind. But grief clouded her ability to focus on it now.
They wheeled her mother into the morgue.
Nadia just stood there, frozen in the hallway, watching as the doors swung closed behind them.
No one explained how a fragile but stable woman suddenly died.
And no one had to.
As she stood there, a text message vibrated in her pocket. With numb fingers, she pulled out her phone.
It was from an Orion:
"Nadia, I'm sorry. I can't come to Jayson at the moment. Check the footage from his accident scene, if you'd recognize the face."
Another message buzzed in containing media file.
Nadia was too shaken to concentrate. Her eyes barely scanned through the message without taking much in.
With one last look at the morgue doors, Nadia straightened her shoulders and walked toward the exit. Grief would have to wait.
She had a promise to keep.