POV Mira
The call still echoed in my head. Stroke. My father. Hospital. The words didn’t fit together. It was like someone had taken the man I knew and rewritten him without asking my permission.
When the wheels hit the tarmac, my chest tightened like there was an invisible fist around it. Leo sat beside me, his hand loosely covering mine. He didn’t say much, and I was grateful. Words would have been too sharp, too loud — silence was safer.
“Come on,” he murmured when the doors opened. “Car’s waiting.”
I nodded, clutching my bag like it might anchor me to the ground. The airport faded behind us as the city outside blurred past — glass, asphalt, strangers rushing like their lives depended on it. My stomach turned with every shift in the road.
“You’re pale,” Leo said quietly.
“I’m fine.” The lie came out flat.
He didn’t argue. Instead, he slid his arm around me, pulling me against his shoulder. His cologne was faint but steady, cutting through the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. I closed my eyes. For a few seconds, I let myself breathe in time with him, pretending that as long as I kept that rhythm, nothing could change.
The hospital’s automatic doors opened with a low hiss, and the smell hit me instantly — that sterile, over-sanitized scent that never quite covers the truth underneath. A nurse in pale blue scrubs met us, her shoes clicking against the tile as she led us down a long corridor.
“Family of Mr. Kensington?” she asked without looking back.
“Yes,” I said, my voice catching halfway through the word.
We stopped outside a door. She turned toward me, her expression gentle but measured. “He’s stable,” she began. “But there’s something you should know before you go in.”
My throat felt dry. “What?”
Her lips parted like she was about to speak, but instead she pushed the door open.
The sight hit me harder than I was ready for. My father lay in the hospital bed, looking… smaller. His skin was pale, his frame thinner than I remembered, an IV line trailing into his arm. His eyes flickered open, searching my face like he was trying to place me.
“Mira,” he said finally. But there was hesitation in his voice — like the name was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
I stepped closer, forcing a smile I didn’t feel. “Dad. I’m here.”
He smiled faintly, but his gaze drifted toward the window, sliding away from me like we’d lost our connection mid-sentence. My stomach sank, heavy and cold.
“Dad?” I tried again, but he didn’t answer.
The door opened, and a doctor stepped inside, clipboard in hand. His eyes flicked between me and Leo before settling on me. “Miss Kensington,” he said, nodding politely, “Mr. Kensington experienced a minor stroke. We were able to stabilize him quickly.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, but it didn’t reach far. The word minor didn’t erase the wires, the beeping, or the way my father seemed to be drifting somewhere I couldn’t follow.
“That’s… that’s good,” I managed.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but there’s another matter we need to discuss.”
Leo’s hand found my elbow, steady and warm. “Go on,” I told the doctor, my voice sharper than I meant.
“We ran a series of cognitive tests after the stroke,” he explained, flipping through his notes. “Mr. Kensington is showing signs of early-stage Alzheimer’s disease. It would explain any lapses in memory you may have noticed before this incident.”
I blinked at him. “Alzheimer’s?” The word felt foreign in my mouth, like it belonged to someone else’s family.
“It’s in the early stages,” the doctor continued. “That’s the good news. We can slow its progression with the right care. But it is progressive — there’s no reversal.”
The floor tilted under me. My mind flashed through moments I had dismissed: him asking the same question twice in one conversation, forgetting names, losing his train of thought. I’d chalked it up to work pressure, age, maybe distraction. But this? This was a thief creeping in while I’d been looking the other way.
“What… what do we do now?” I asked, my voice breaking despite my best efforts.
“We’ve already begun setting up a treatment plan,” the doctor said. “Specialists, neurologists, personalized therapy sessions, memory care programs. Everything he needs to maintain function for as long as possible.”
“And the cost?” My words came out on autopilot. “It must be—”
“It’s covered,” the doctor said.
“Covered?” I frowned. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t—” My gaze flicked between him and Leo, my pulse speeding up. “Who covered it?”
The doctor hesitated, then glanced at Leo.
“Mr. Stern,” he said. “He’s made all the arrangements.”