Silence filled every corner of the ICU room. It had the color of despair. Betsy glued her eyes on the door. Impatient tears blurred her view. After three hours, her balky wait ended. The ICU door slid open. Betsy leaped from her seat. She stopped the surgeon in his track to learn her daughters' state.
“Please tell me my daughters are safe,” requested Betsy.
“Sera is resting now. You can see her in an hour,” replied the doctor.
Sera's heartbeat knifed the silence with the ECG beeping. An immediate vivacity replaced Betsy's insipid countenance.
“Unfortunately, we couldn't save Lucy. By the time she reached here, she'd lost a lot of blood. I'm sorry,” added the doctor before he sequestered Betsy in her forlornness.
The clock struck six. A blazing sun hung in usual east, enthralling the Hudson river with its gold: a tranquil New York morning. Raven curls pulled with headband. Wreathed in running apparel, sat Sera on a city bench. Tying her shoelace, readying for a run. When her acquaintances enquired why she ran, she told it was for the year's marathon. After a mile's distance, she always heard a familiar voice. One she lost a month ago. In an accident. It came from an old placid memory: when Lucy and Sera raced to their mother's gentle arms, when silence had the color of peace. Ever since the accident, Sera lost the race. Though she had no competition