Your father lay in the narrow bed, his breathing slow and steady. A bandage wrapped around his head, bruises blooming across his face like dark clouds. The doctors said he would recover, but the bills were already piling up on the small bedside table.

You sat in the hard plastic chair beside him, your fingers curled around his calloused hand. The skin was warm, familiar.

Through the window, the city glittered beyond the glass—tall buildings, bright lights, a world that had never once looked your way.