He was still in serious condition.
But he was alive.
And in that room where everyone had accepted the end, the only person not wearing a white coat was the one who had managed to open a crack to hope.
Carmen tried to pick up her mop and disappear before anyone spoke to her. It was what she always did. Clean. Stay silent. Step out of the frame. But she didn’t even get two steps.
—Wait —Rafael said, his voice breaking.
She stopped.
She didn’t look at him right away. Her breathing was ragged, her hands cold and clammy, and she had a strange expression on her face: relief, fear, and something older than both.
“You… gave my son back his life,” Rafael managed to say.
Carmen clenched her jaw.
—I didn’t give it back to her. I just begged her not to give up so soon.
One of the doctors, still agitated, stared at her intently. No longer with indignation, but with bewilderment.
“That stimulus wasn’t accidental,” he said. “Who taught him to do that?”
Carmen lowered her gaze. For a second, she seemed about to deny it, shrug her shoulders, or make up some excuse. But Isabel, from the bed, saw her clutch a folded notebook sticking out of her uniform pocket. It was worn, with bent corners, as if it had been opened and closed a thousand times.
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