Then he answered quietly.
“Because when my son died, I wasn’t there.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I was working a night shift. By the time I got to the hospital… he was already gone.”
He looked at Malik.
“I couldn’t save Lucas. But your boy’s still fighting. And I won’t let him fight alone.”
After that, things changed.
I started staying in the room longer.
The three of us—me, Lena, and Ronan—took turns sitting beside Malik. Reading. Talking. Playing music.
On day twenty-three, Ronan brought half his motorcycle club with him.
They filled the hallway in leather vests and heavy boots. They couldn’t all fit in the room, so they stood outside and prayed.
Then they went down to the parking lot and started their engines.
The sound echoed through the hospital like thunder.
“Malik loves motorcycles,” Lena said, crying. “If he can hear anything… he’ll hear that.”
Weeks passed.
The doctors started preparing us for the worst.
On day thirty they mentioned long-term care.
On day thirty-five they said some coma patients never wake up.
I broke down in the hallway.
Ronan sat beside me without saying a word.
After a while I whispered, “I can’t lose him.”
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