The early morning light found the house already awake. Her three caretakers had been unusually quiet these past few days, and she felt their worry like a physical presence seeping through the closed doors. She didn’t want them to suffer any longer. Summoning the last dregs of strength after days of fasting, she pushed herself up and shuffled toward the kitchen.

  She looked like a nightmare; the mirror in her room didn’t lie. Dark circles pooled under her eyes, her cheeks were hollow, and her skin carried a sickly pallor. Her hair was a greasy, matted disaster, her scalp itching from weeks of neglect. She probably smelled, too. The thought cut through the fog, and she paused at the kitchen door. She forced herself to focus, to connect a few simple facts—a process that felt like wading through mud. But the right switch finally flipped in her mind. She turned on her heel and began the long trudge to the bathroom instead. She had news to deliver. Good news. Not a death sentence. And even if it was a beautiful lie, it had to be perfect. Especially because it was a lie.

  How had everything gotten so complicated? She moved with effort, but once she started, momentum carried her forward. The stream of hot water washed over her, rinsing away exhaustion and loosening stiff muscles. It felt... pleasant. For a fleeting moment, she thought she wouldn’t mind dying like this: drifting into oblivion on the cool tiles, forgetting everything. No pain. No fear. But death wasn’t the end, and that single, chilling thought made her straighten and do what needed to be done. She scrubbed away the grime, her thoughts flowing unchecked; she had no strength left to cage them. It didn’t even surprise her when they settled on the Not-a-Doctor. He hadn’t contacted her. No messages. No connection. No attempt to discern her plans. But why would he? It was her life. Her choice. Still, a small, treacherous part of her wished for some sign that he cared. The thought that struck her as she dried off with a clean towel was simple and absolute: I need to become stronger. Strong enough to stand alone. She’d known it before, had even made half-hearted attempts, but now she understood the core of the problem. Her mind was built on sand. She had to tear it all down, gather the rubble, and rebuild on something solid, unshakable. Yes, she could do it. Even if it hurt like hell.

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  Getting dressed was a battle of attrition. Her limbs refused to cooperate, and even pulling on clothes felt monumental. She had let herself fall too far. The trauma of recent events was no excuse for such profound neglect. Now, she ran on sheer willpower, forcing sore muscles to obey as she fastened her bra and pulled on her pants. The hoodie, at least, was a small mercy. Finally dressed, she decided against resting. She would do what she had to do first. She could collapse from hunger afterward. She didn’t care anymore.

  The expressions on her caretakers’ faces when she entered the kitchen hit her like a physical blow. Their worry was raw and overwhelming. It was the last thing she had expected to see. A little relief, maybe, but not this gut-wrenching concern. When you don’t get what you want... you improvise. She sat down at the table as if it were any other morning, her gaze moving from Helena to Walery and finally lingering on Gregory. They watched her in silence, their eyes taking inventory of the damage wrought by her fast. The silence stretched, growing heavy and oppressive, until Helena finally broke it.

  “You don’t look well, child,” she said, moving to the fridge. “You need to eat. Something warm will make you feel better.”

  “I’m starving,” Alice muttered, letting her head thud onto the table. “I’m about to pass out.”

  “Alice, head off the table,” Walery scolded, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “Must I still remind you of your manners?”

  “Apparently,” came her feeble reply.

  Gregory chimed in right away. “And now the backtalk. As if poor manners weren’t enough.”

  As their familiar bickering continued, Helena started preparing a simple rice porridge. Alice watched, her disbelief and concern mounting. “What is that? Please tell me you’re making a lot, and that it’s actually edible.”

  “Definitely not a lot,” Helena replied firmly. “You haven’t eaten properly in days. Do you want to make yourself sick? It’s plain porridge. You’ll eat it hot, and you’ll eat it slowly. Don’t overdo it...”

  “Fine, fine... just give me food,” Alice groaned.

  The easy banter allowed the room to breathe again, puncturing the strange, heavy atmosphere, and the unspoken sense that something was ending. Yet beneath the laughter and teasing, a false note lingered. They were pretending everything was normal... but it wasn’t. Something had ended. They might not have understood it yet, but they could all feel it. The time for goodbyes was near.