“Hasn’t he come yet?” asked Ms. Marie, a woman in her mid-twenties, as she glanced toward the hospital corridor for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Not yet, Ms. Marie.” replied Mrs. Braganza, a seasoned nurse in her late forties, adjusting a file in her hand.

Marie sighed, half with worry, half with resignation. “I don’t think he’ll come today, Mrs. Braganza.”

The older woman smiled knowingly. “No, my dear. He’ll come. That man hasn’t missed a single day in four years. If he’s late, something important must’ve come up.”

“Maybe you're right.” Ms. Marie nodded thoughtfully. Then, after a short pause, she said with a soft smile, “You know what, Mrs. Braganza? I’ve never seen a man like him. She’s very lucky.”

“She is. Indeed.” Mrs. Braganza agreed with a gentle nod.

Elsewhere… inside a sleek glass-and-steel conference room

A digital clock ticked softly as Abhinav Rathore paced through a sharp, captivating presentation. His posture was confident, voice steady, appearance immaculate—charcoal suit, crisp shirt, no tie, but all focus. Yet beneath that cool exterior, his eyes darted now and then to his watch.

Time was slipping through his fingers.

As the presentation concluded, a senior client, Mr. Chopra, leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Mr. Rathore, we’re impressed. This idea is bold and lucrative. We’d be proud to award this contract to your firm.”

Abhinav allowed himself a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Chopra. You won’t regret trusting us.”

“It’s our pleasure—especially working with someone like you.” Mr. Chopra added, extending his hand.

The moment the meeting ended, Abhinav rushed to his father’s cabin. Mr. Suyesh Rathore, silver-haired and dignified, stood waiting.

“You did well, Abhinav. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” he said quickly. “But I’ve got to go.”

His father's eyes softened “To her,right?”

Abhinav nodded, already moving.“And please… talk to Mom. You know how she gets.”

Mr. Rathore chuckled. “Go on. I’ll handle her.”

.........

On his way, Abhinav pulled his car to a halt in front of a florist. He chose a bouquet of stargazer lilies, delicate and vibrant—just like her. At a nearby shop, he picked up her favorite Cadbury chocolates.

He drove through the city, a storm of memories tugging at him with every passing streetlamp. Finally, he arrived.

A private hospital.

After parking, he hurried to the third floor and stopped in front of Room 307.

He stood at the door, bouquet in hand, heart pounding. “I hope she’ll be happy to see these… and forgive me for being late.”he whispered.

He stepped inside.

The VIP room was calm and immaculately maintained. The walls were painted a soft ivory, the floor lined with polished tiles. A leather sofa sat in one corner, and a flat-screen TV hung silently on the wall. At the center of the room, surrounded by medical monitors, was a hospital bed.

Lying motionless on that bed was Amaira, his beloved. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, her body fragile,lips parted ever so slightly, as though she was just between breaths. Machines beeped steadily, rhythmically.

He walked over, pulled a stool close to her bedside, and sat down.

“Hey, Amu.” he whispered, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

No response.

“I’m sorry for being late. The meeting ran longer than expected.”

He held up the bouquet. “Look—your favorite flowers. Stargazers.”

He laid the bouquet on her bedside table, then reached into his coat and pulled out a bar of chocolate. “And I brought these too.”

This was his tradition—his apology whenever he let her down.

“You’re not angry anymore, right? You’ve forgiven me?” he asked softly.

Still silence.

“You’re not speaking to me today either, huh?” he chuckled softly, then exhaled. “I miss your scolding, you know. At least then I knew you were listening.”

He took her hand gently—cold, delicate, lifeless—and pressed it between his palms.

Four years. Four long years. She hadn’t opened her eyes once. But he had never missed a single day.

Just then, the door creaked open. Mrs. Braganza stepped in, holding a tray of medicines.

“Good evening, my child.”

“Evening, Mrs. Braganza.” Abhinav said, quickly brushing a tear from his cheek.

“You’re late.” she teased, setting the tray down.

“A last-minute meeting came up.” he said, watching her prepare the injection.

“I figured as much. You’ve never been late before unless something urgent came up.” she said, filling the syringe.

“Please be careful. Don’t let her feel any pain,” Abhinav said with concern.

“Don’t worry. She won’t feel anything.”

“I know… it’s just…”

As she injected the medicine, Abhinav held Amaira’s hand and closed his eyes tightly.

“You can open your eyes now. I’m done.” she said, a small smile on her face.

He opened them and sighed in relief.

“You never change.” she teased gently. “Four years of daily injections, and you still react like I’m injecting you instead.”

“She used to be scared of needles,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Amaira’s face. “She once told me that when I held her hand, she didn’t feel the pain.”

He paused, his gaze fixed on Amaira’s still face. “I know what you’ll say—she can’t feel anything now. But I believe she still senses me.Somewhere deep inside, she knows I’m here.”

Mrs. Braganza didn’t argue. She simply looked at him with quiet admiration.

“You’ll have to wait outside for a moment. I need to change her clothes.”

"Oh,okay."He stood up slowly, placed Amaira’s hand back gently, and walked to the door.

Before stepping out, he turned to her once more, eyes heavy with emotion.

“I’ll be right back, Amu.”He whispered and then he left.

Mrs. Braganza watched the door close, then slowly turned her gaze toward the ceiling. The room felt heavier in his absence—like it too was waiting for a miracle.

“Why, God?” she whispered, her fingers reaching for the silver cross at her neck. “Why are you testing this boy?”

She moved closer to Amaira and gently adjusted the sheet over her, brushing a tender hand across the girl’s forehead.

“He comes every day without fail,” she murmured. “Talks to you, brings your favorite flowers, your chocolates… holds your hand like it still gives you strength. That’s not love, that’s devotion. And if that’s not enough to bring someone back, then what is?”

She paused, blinking away the moisture clouding her vision.

“If anyone deserves a miracle, it’s him. Please… bring her back to him. Let her wake up. Let her see the way he looks at her.”

A soft gust of wind stirred the curtains as if the universe itself was listening.

Mrs. Braganza looked down at Amaira’s face—still, pale, serene—and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Don’t make him wait a lifetime, child. If you can hear him, if you can feel him… come back.”

She stood there for a moment longer, the only sound in the room the soft hum of machines, and then quietly got to work, humming a gentle lullaby under her breath—as if Amaira might hear and find her way home through the sound.