Flashback 25 years ago
Diamond Private Hospital's elite ward was bathed in cold fluorescent light. Monitors beeped steadily, IV bags hung beside the hospital bed, and a metallic scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. On the bed, a three-year-old boy named Reynold lay still, his small chest rising and falling faintly. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, and a mess of tubes connected him to machines that hummed as they monitored his weakening condition.
Beside the bed, a woman sat, clutching the child's tiny hand. Her eyes, rimmed red from hours of crying, kept shifting from the door to the clock mounted above it. Every second ticked louder in her mind. She kept glancing at the boy, then back to the doorway as if willing someone to appear.
