I stepped away and leaned against the wall, torn in half.
One side of me saw the future I had worked for slipping away. The other side saw David lying on a stretcher, alone in the world, fighting to breathe.
I closed my eyes.
I remembered him sweeping my shop. Smiling shyly. Saying thank you like it was a prayer.
I remembered the empty building.
I remembered the car speeding away like cruelty had wheels.
If I walked away now, he might not survive the night.
And what would my dream mean if I could not live with myself?
I walked back to the counter.
“Please,” I said quietly, “give me a few minutes.”
I rushed home with my mother. I pulled out the wooden savings box from my drawer. It felt heavier than ever, like it carried every sacrifice inside it.
My mother touched my shoulder. “Do what your heart tells you.”
I didn’t hesitate anymore.
I broke the box.
Money scattered across the tiles like years falling apart.
I gathered it into a bag, tears dropping onto my hands.
At the hospital, I placed the money on the counter. The man counted it and nodded.
“We will begin treatment immediately.”
When I returned to the hallway, I felt empty and relieved at the same time.
My dream was gone.
But David was still alive.
And strangely, I didn’t regret it.
Not even for a moment.
A week later, David woke up.
