Chapter 15 The Night Breath Was Stolen
The scream tore through the house before dawn had fully arrived.
It wasn’t loud at first, not the kind that shattered walls but sharp and desperate, like something being ripped loose. Clara’s mother was already half-awake when she heard it, her heart lurching before her mind caught up. She was on her feet instantly, the sound pulling her down the hallway faster than thought.
“Clara!” she called, pushing open the bedroom door.
The room was dim, washed in the thin gray of early morning. Clara sat upright on the bed, both hands clutching the blanket at her chest. Her mouth was open, gasping, not crying now, not screaming anymore, just fighting. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, like they were being stolen halfway in.
Her father appeared behind her mother, his face draining of color in a way that told her this fear was familiar to him too.
“Oh God,” her mother whispered.
Fluid. She knew it immediately. The way Clara’s shoulders strained, the faint rattling sound in her chest, she had heard it before. Too many times.
“I can’t..” Clara tried to say, but the words dissolved into the air. Her eyes were wide, glassy with panic. “Mom…”
“I’m here,” her mother said, crossing the room in two steps. She knelt beside the bed, hands shaking as she reached for the oxygen tank by the nightstand. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
But Clara didn’t feel okay.
Every breath felt thinner than the last, like her lungs were filling faster than she could empty them. Her chest burned. The room tilted. She could hear her parents’ voices overlapping, too loud and too far away all at once.
Her father was already on the phone. “Yes..yes, fluid buildup again. She can’t breathe. Please..please hurry.”
The oxygen mask was pressed over her face, cool plastic against her skin. Clara tried to focus on the sound of it, the steady hiss meant to help, but fear clawed its way up her throat.
She had felt this before.
And that was the worst part.
Because she knew what it meant.
Her vision blurred at the edges as memories crashed in, hospital ceilings, beeping machines, hands holding hers while doctors spoke in careful tones. She remembered being thirteen, small and terrified, wondering if that night would be her last. She remembered thinking she would never feel air fill her lungs properly again.
Not like this.
Not now.
Her mother’s face hovered above her, pale and frantic. “Stay with me,” she said, brushing Clara’s hair back from her damp forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”
Clara tried. She really did. But the room kept slipping away, like she was sinking underwater while the world stayed on the surface.
I’m not ready, she thought, the words screaming inside her head even as her body betrayed her. I’m not ready to go.
Amsterdam flashed through her mind, the book, the unanswered questions, the possibility she had barely touched. Peter’s smile. His laugh. The warmth of his hand in hers.
Peter.
The ambulance arrived with a scream of sirens that cut through the quiet street. Paramedics flooded the room, voices calm but urgent, movements efficient and practiced. Clara was lifted, strapped, surrounded by strangers who spoke in numbers and clipped sentences.
“Blood pressure’s dropping.”
“Stay with us, Clara.”
She wanted to tell them she was trying.
As they wheeled her out of the house, the morning air hit her face, cold and sharp. The sky above was pale blue, deceptively peaceful. Clara stared at it as the doors of the ambulance slammed shut, sealing her inside.
The ride was a blur of lights and sounds.
She drifted in and out, consciousness slipping through her fingers no matter how tightly she tried to hold on. At one point, she was certain she was floating, weightless and quiet. At another, panic surged back with brutal force, her chest aching as if it might split open.
Her mother rode beside her, fingers never leaving Clara’s arm. Her father followed in the car behind, his mind replaying every hospital visit they had prayed was the last.
They had believed naively that this part was over.
The hospital doors burst open, fluorescent lights replacing the soft morning glow. Voices echoed. Shoes squeaked against the floor. Clara’s bed rushed through corridors she knew too well.
“Fluid in the lungs,” someone said. “History of stage four thyroid cancer. On Phalanxifor.”
That word Phalanxifor floated above her like a fragile promise and a cruel joke all at once.
Hands moved her, adjusted tubes, pressed monitors to her skin. The oxygen mask was replaced, her breathing assisted, her body surrendering to the process because it no longer had the strength to fight.
Her parents stood back, watching, helpless.
Her mother’s hands were clenched together so tightly her knuckles ached. She had spent years learning how to stay calm, how to listen without falling apart. But standing there, watching her daughter struggle for air again, felt like being dragged backward through time.
This is what I was afraid of, she thought bitterly. This exact moment.
Her father stared at the floor, jaw locked, afraid that if he looked at Clara too long, he might break. He had learned early on that hope could be dangerous, how it rose easily, only to shatter just as fast.
Clara’s eyes fluttered open one last time as they reached the emergency wing. For a brief second, clarity returned. She saw the ceiling rushing past, the bright lights blinding her.
She thought of her mother’s silence in the car.
She thought of Peter’s promise: I’m here.
And then the doors swung open.
“Family needs to wait here,” a nurse said firmly.
“No,” her mother protested. “Please…”
“I’m sorry.”
The doors closed.
The sound was final. Heavy.
Clara was gone from sight, swallowed by the emergency room and all its unanswered questions.
Her parents stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the place where their daughter had disappeared, the echo of that closing door ringing louder than any siren.
And somewhere beyond it, Clara fought for breath while the world waited to see if she would be given another.