Page 147 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Small sips. That’s it.”

She drank, her throat working with slow, painful-looking swallows. Her eyes, heavy and glazed, never left mine. My free hand returned to her hair, stroking it back from her damp forehead in a steady, soothing rhythm.

When she’d had enough, I capped the bottle and set it aside. Then, with infinite care, I slid my arm from behind her shoulders, lowering her down onto the pillows. She sank into them with a shuddering sigh, her body finally surrendering to the fatigue and the medicine’s promised reprieve.

I pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking it snugly around her shoulders. Her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath my fingertips, each frantic beat sending another pang through me.

I stayed beside her until her breathing deepened into the ragged, uneven rhythm of fevered sleep. Then, I slipped into the kitchen and returned with a mixing bowl filled with cool water and a soft, clean towel.

I dipped the cloth into the water, wrung out the excess, and pressed it gently against her forehead. She flinched at the first touch, a small sound of discomfort escaping her before she relaxed beneath the coolness. I moved the cloth behind her neck, then over the pulse points at her wrists, returning it to the water each time it warmed against her skin. I kept going, tending to her with careful, unhurried movements, refusing to leave her side.

As the hours passed, the water in the bowl lost its chill. I replaced it again and again, wringing out the cloth and laying it across her forehead each time. By then, my fingers knew exactly where to touch, how long to linger, how to judge the heat beneath her skin. The fever had eased from its initial intensity, but she was still burning.

The alarm on my phone vibrated softly.

Time for the next dose.

I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped my hands beneath her shoulders. “Alessia,” I murmured. “Come on. Sit up for me, just for a moment.”

After some gentle, persistent coaxing, she finally let me bring her upright. A low groan of protest escaped her, and her muscles went slack almost immediately, sending her weight back toward the mattress. I shifted closer and caught her against me before she could fall, her burning temple coming to rest against my collarbone.

“I know.” I pressed my lips to her damp hair, one hand cradling her feverish cheek. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.” I pulled her closer, keeping her weight supported against me. “Just a little more. Please. I need you to help me a little longer.”

A faint, pained sound escaped her. She turned into me, burying her face against the side of my neck and clinging to me.

With my free hand, I fumbled for the bottle and the pill on the nightstand. I held them near her lips. “Here it is. Just open up.”

A low, pained groan was her only response. Then, with a visible, weary effort that tightened my chest, her lips parted. I placed the pill on her tongue and brought the bottle to her mouth, tipping it carefully. She took a few weak swallows.

The second the bottle left her lips, all remaining tension fled her body. She went completely limp, a boneless, burning weight sinking fully against me. I returned the bottle to the table, then leaned back into the headboard, accepting her full weight. One arm curled securely around her back, holding her close, while my other hand continued running through her damp hair in gentle, reassuring strokes.

A few minutes of fragile quiet passed. A small, wet sniffle broke the silence. Another followed, joined by a broken, whimpering whisper that sliced through the dark.

“Mom?”

The word was a needle straight to the heart.

Every year, the same call. Every year, this moment shattered me.

When the fever burned away every other layer, this was what remained. A lonely little girl, aching for the comfort she had spent her whole life being denied.

My arms tightened around her instinctively, pulling her slight, fever-wracked form more securely against my chest. It was a reflex, an attempt to physically shield her from the ancient, gaping absence the word represented.

“It’s okay,” I murmured into her sweat-damp hair. “I’m here, Alessia.” I pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her crown, breathing in her familiar scent. “It doesn’t matter who’s not. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

I held her as tremors ran through her, tears spilling unchecked. My palm moved slowly along her arm, soothing each shiver that passed through her. I rested my chin atop her head and kept her close, letting her cry against me until the sobs began to ease.

Words were useless against that particular hurt. Presence was the only medicine.

Her sniffles gradually faded. The tension that had kept her small, feverish body rigid began to loosen beneath my arms. Little by little, her weight sank against me, every muscle giving in to the exhaustion that had overtaken her. Her breathing grew deeper and more even, the broken rhythm of her sobs fading into the slow cadence of sleep.

I kept holding her, my lips brushing her temple as I whispered the same desperate pleas beneath my breath.

Let her skin cool.

Let this be the last time this happens.

And if it’s not… let me be the one beside her. Every time. Let me be here to catch her when she calls for someone who never comes.