Gemotions

The hospital room felt stifling. Thomas stared at the artwork propped up on his niece, Mia's, bed. A skeletal figure with a top hat. The embodiment of “Bones,” his childhood friend. He felt utterly depleted. "Mia," he asked, his voice hoarse, "Does Bones ever… hurt you?"

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn't eat. He spent his days sitting by Mia's side, watching her, listening to her, scrutinizing every action, every word. The weight of his past, and the fear for her future, was crushing him.

He was constantly questioning the doctors, the nurses, desperately searching for some sign, some explanation. Every passing hour felt like an eternity. He was at the end of his rope.