A Mother's Worry

The green. Always the green. It seeped into Elara’s vision, a constant, humid presence that was both the color of life and the color of decay. Today, it seemed particularly potent, clinging to the crisp white sheets, the sterile gleam of the medical equipment, even the pale skin of her own hands. They lay, thin and almost translucent, on the blanket, pale islands in a sea of verdant light. She tried to flex her fingers, a minuscule rebellion against the inertia that claimed her limbs. A faint tremor answered, a whisper of movement that was both a victory and a defeat.

Her breath hitched, a shallow, rasping sound that was amplified by the rhythmic hiss and beep of the machines that sustained her. They were her constant companions, their digital pulse a stark counterpoint to the languid, uncertain beat of her own heart. Each whir and click was a reminder, a cold, metallic voice telling her she was here, tethered, adrift.

A flicker, then another. Fragments, like shards of stained glass, tumbled through the haze of her mind. A kitchen, bathed in the warm, buttery light of late afternoon. The scent of baking bread, yeasty and comforting. A hand, large and warm, resting on hers. Her mother’s hand. Eleanor.