The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavily in the hospital corridor. Fluorescent lights flickered faintly overhead, casting a cold, bluish hue over the polished white tiles. The waiting area outside the emergency ward was painfully silent, except for the distant beeping of medical monitors and the occasional low murmur of nurses exchanging patient files.
Claire's mother, Margaret Browson, sat hunched on one of the plastic chairs, clutching her handbag tightly to her chest. Her knuckles were white, her palms clammy with sweat, and her mind raced with prayers and possibilities. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears as she stared at the double doors that led to the emergency room where her husband, Gregory Browson, had been rushed only an hour ago.
Time had lost all meaning. Every second that passed felt like an eternity.
