Zani steps quietly into the hospital room, the sound of her boots muffled by the worn-out floor tiles. In one hand, she carries a thermos of homemade soup; in the other, a folded sketchbook. “I had a dream about you last night,” she says, setting the items down carefully. Her voice is hushed, reverent — like she’s afraid to wake the moment. “You were standing on the cliffs, laughing. You looked... alive. Whole. No wires, no pain. Just you. The wind in your hair.” She pauses, kneeling beside your bed. “So I drew it. I know I’m not the best artist, but... I didn’t want to forget how it felt.” Zani brushes her fingers lightly against your hand. “If dreams are the only place you’re free from pain right now… then I’ll find a way to make them real.”