I circle back to the hospital room, though I can no longer tell how long I've been drifting in and out of memories. Time has become meaningless here. The only measure of its passing is the steady, indifferent beeping of the monitor - a cruel reminder that his body is alive, yet his spirit feels unreachable. Nothing has changed. The stillness of his form feels both comforting and terrifying.
I walk to the bed, my steps heavier than I realize, and slide back into my customary place on the chair beside him. His face lies calm, too calm, as though life has pressed pause. I stare at him and whisper silently to myself: Just once. Please, just once. Wake up. Look at me. Give me a sign.
But then another fear pierces through me - what if he does wake up? What if, in his disorientation, he doesn't even recognize me? What if the years of distance, the words spoken in anger, the silence that grew between us, have erased me from his memory? Would he scream at the sight of a stranger by his bed, rather than smile at the sister who once knew him better than anyone else?
I clasp his limp hand tightly between mine, pressing harder than I usually do, as though force alone can transmit my plea. Closing my eyes, I summon whatever remains of my strength and try to channel it into a happier space - a sanctuary of memory where he and I still belong to each other.
And there they come, rushing at me, unspooling like a reel of old film: our younger, carefree selves. The garden adventures, sticky with summer afternoons. The play store raids where we acted like conquerors of a kingdom of plastic toys. Our joint conspiracies against the housemaid, which always ended in our mother's exasperated scolding and our muffled laughter. The late-night whispers in a darkened room, random musings at ungodly hours, secrets sealed with sibling promises. Those memories flicker through my mind with a bittersweet clarity, so vivid it almost hurts.
But then I push harder, to a memory not just of what was but of what we once dreamed. That impossible, innocent plan of building a home in the mountains - a sanctuary far from the clamor of the city. Just us, our parents, and the families we'd someday build. Two dogs bounding in the meadow, an enormous blooming garden stretching towards the horizon, the sound of a stream bubbling nearby. A dream so pure that it made everything else seem secondary.
And without realizing, I am smiling. The smile creeps onto my face, foreign yet familiar. In that moment, I am transported there, into the dream itself.
The sound of the stream fills the air, crisp and alive. I find myself standing at the edge of a meadow, the hills rolling in the distance. The air smells of earth and flowers, like the promise of peace. Across the stream, I see a figure - a silhouette strolling near the far side of a bridge. My heart leaps before my mind catches up.
Could it be?
He steps closer into view, and my breath catches. It's him. My brother. Not this still, silent version of him lying in the hospital bed, but vibrant, alive, smiling. His face carries that youthful spark, the mischievous charm of his young adult days. He looks whole. Happy. Untouched by the bitterness that scarred us.
I wave. I call his name. But there's no recognition. His eyes do not meet mine. He doesn't wave back. The sound of the stream swallows my voice, the distance between us feels insurmountable. Still, I rush forward, desperate, eager to cross the bridge, to feel his arms around me in one of those bone-crushing hugs we used to share.
But as soon as I set foot on the bridge, something stops me. An invisible force, like a wall of glass, holds me back. I push harder, my hands pressing against thin air, my feet braced with all my strength. Nothing. The path is blocked, as though some cruel cosmic decree has ruled that I may see him, but not reach him.
He continues strolling on his side, utterly oblivious to me. He bends to look at wildflowers blooming by his path, touches the shrubs, inhales their fragrance, unaware that I am just steps away - separated only by this unseen, impenetrable barrier. My chest aches. My throat tightens. I push again, harder, but it's useless.
Even in this imagined sanctuary - this happy place of mine - my love is being tested.
Even here, fate is playing its cruel games.