CHAPTER 96: 96 - A LIFELINE

96

~Lisa’s POV

The days that followed blurred together like a watercolor left in the rain. Morning would come, and I’d already be awake, sitting by Papa’s bedside with dark circles under my eyes. I barely left the room, only to fetch water, warm broth, or open the door for the physician when he arrived.

At first, I thought Papa was getting a little better. His fever wasn’t as high anymore, and he could open his eyes longer. He even smiled at me once, just for a second, but it had lit up my entire chest like the sun had peeked through the clouds.

But then... things started changing.

Little things, at first. Things I didn’t want to notice.

On the third day, I tried feeding him some thin porridge I had made. He had eaten a little bit the day before, so I was hopeful. I sat beside him with a warm bowl, stirred it gently, and lifted the spoon to his mouth.

"Papa," I said softly, "you need to eat something."

He didn’t answer.

"Just a little. Please."

I gently touched his cheek and tried again. His eyes fluttered open, but they looked distant, cloudy, like he wasn’t really seeing me.

"I made it myself," I whispered, trying to smile. "Remember how you taught me to stir so it won’t stick to the bottom?"

He blinked slowly, then turned his face away.

The spoon wobbled in my hand.

"Papa..."

His lips barely moved, but I heard it, "No appetite."

My chest sank. I tried not to panic.

"Alright... maybe later," I said, even though I knew he wouldn’t.

I kept the bowl beside the bed just in case, but he never touched it.

The next morning, I noticed he didn’t call my name when I came into the room like he used to. He didn’t even stir. His eyes stayed shut the whole time I changed his wet cloth and adjusted his blanket. I tried humming again, hoping it would comfort him, but he didn’t react.

When the physician came, I told him everything. The man examined Papa, pressing gently against his chest, listening closely to his breathing.

"His cough’s worse," he said quietly. "And his lungs sound tight."

"What does that mean?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"He’s not breathing as well as before," the doctor said. "The infection is spreading deeper into his lungs. The fever’s lower, yes, but the danger hasn’t passed."

I bit my lip. "He’s barely eating. He didn’t even open his eyes today."

The physician gave me a long look. "Keep trying to get food and water into him, even if it’s little by little. And make sure he’s warm. I’ll change his medicine to something stronger... but we need to watch him closely."

He left more pills and some syrup and told me he’d return the next day.

That night, I sat in the room, staring at Papa. His breathing was heavier now. Not loud, but labored, like every breath took effort. I placed my hand on his chest, and it rose too slowly, too unevenly.

I moved the lamp closer to see his face better. His skin, once golden brown, looked pale and a little gray around the lips. His cheeks seemed more sunken. I touched his forehead. It wasn’t burning hot like before, but it was damp with sweat.

And his hands... they used to be warm when I held them. Now, they were cold.

I pulled the blanket tighter around him and knelt beside the bed, rubbing his hands between mine to warm them. "Papa, please fight," I whispered. "Please."

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t squeeze back.

I stayed awake all night, afraid to close my eyes.

Afraid that if I did... I might wake up and find him gone.

The morning light crept in softly through the curtains, painting pale gold streaks on the wooden floor, but I didn’t move. I had stayed by Papa’s side all night, watching him, listening for every breath. My back ached from the awkward position, and my eyes were dry and gritty from lack of sleep, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t leave him. Not even for a second.

I reached for the clean cloth I’d left soaking in a basin of warm water and gently wiped his forehead. His skin was clammy now, not hot but not cold either, just... wrong. I rechecked the bowl of porridge. Untouched.

"Papa," I said softly, brushing some stray hairs away from his face. "Can you hear me?"

His eyes didn’t open. His mouth didn’t twitch. I bent lower, pressing my forehead gently against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar but now faint scent of herbs and the faintest trace of woodsmoke.

I couldn’t lose him.

I just couldn’t.

I pulled back and tried again. "Papa... It’s me. Lisa. You said you’d be here when I got married. You promised to meet my children." My voice cracked. "You still owe me a dance, remember? On my wedding day. You said you would."

His chest rose, barely, and I clung to that movement like it was a lifeline.

Later that day, I forced myself to eat a few spoonfuls of rice. I needed the strength. I couldn’t care for him if I fainted. I chewed slowly, numbly, not tasting anything. Afterward, I cleaned up the room, replacing the damp towels with fresh ones, opening the window slightly for fresh air, and lighting a stick of scented wood. Papa always liked that smell. Said it reminded him of the forest after rain.

I sat beside him again, holding his hand. Hours passed. The physician returned and checked him once more. He didn’t say much, but his silence said everything.

After he left, I leaned against the wall and finally cried. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks, my hands clutching the edge of my dress tightly. I didn’t want Papa to hear me cry, not even in this state. But I had to let it out.

Then one night, it must have been the fourth or fifth night, I heard a strange sound. It wasn’t the normal rasp of Papa’s breath. It was shorter... shallower... and then there was a pause.

I shot up.

"Papa?"

No response.

I leaned closer, placing my ear near his mouth.

He was still breathing. But it was faint. So faint.