The Sound of Forever

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Julianna

Every time I step into a hospital, I can’t help but wonder why they haven’t found a way to replace the overpowering scent of disinfectant with something softer—flowers, fresh air . . . anything . Surely, a touch of nature would be better for healing than the sterile bite of chlorine and chemicals. Or maybe it’s just my way of avoiding what’s coming. My way of trying not to face the inevitable—trying to distract myself for just a moment longer.

I walk through the endless corridors of Seattle Memorial, my shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floors. The fluorescent lights above cast everything in a harsh, sterile glow. My reflection in the polished elevator doors stares back at me—tired, unkempt, fraying at the edges.

My steps falter as I reach the hallway. The door looms ahead—plain, white, and unassuming, yet it feels like it holds the power to change everything. Behind it lies a moment that will reshape my life into something unfamiliar, something I never asked for and don’t know how to navigate.

My hand hovers over the knob, trembling with hesitation. I clench it into a fist and press it against my side, as if pinning it there might keep me grounded. Breathing feels impossible, my throat constricted, lungs refusing to expand. The nurse had explained something earlier—procedure, protocol—but her words had dissolved into meaningless noise. All I hear now is the frantic drumbeat of my pulse.

Breathe, Julianna. Just breathe.

I glance down at myself. Yoga pants, scuffed shoes, and an oversized sweater I grabbed from the floor in my rush out the door. The fabric hangs loose on my frame, but it still feels suffocating, as though the walls themselves are closing in.

The door opens before I can make a decision, and I’m face-to-face with a man I’ve never met. His scrubs are pristine, his expression carefully controlled. Professional sympathy radiates from him, the kind that’s practiced, distant, and routine.

“Ms. Valencia?” His voice is calm but firm, a question softened by pity. “I’m Dr. Gabriel Decker. Your sister’s physician.”

My throat tightens. I can barely manage a nod as I swallow against the lump rising painfully fast.

“We’ve done everything we could,” he says, the words gentle but unforgiving. “It’s only a matter of time now.”

He steps aside, and I move past him, my legs stiff and uncooperative. The room is impossibly small, the space swallowed up by machines that hum and beep with an almost cruel indifference.

And then I see her.

Elena lies motionless on the bed, her face unnaturally pale, her chest eerily still. The ventilator hisses in its rhythmic cadence, the only sound assuring she’s still here, suspended between this world and whatever comes next. My gaze locks on her, willing her to move, to breathe, to wake.

A strangled sound escapes me, muffled by the hand I press to my mouth. It’s foreign, raw, and full of anguish I’ve been trying to keep at bay since the phone call. Grief rises in my throat, acidic and unbearable, but I force it back down. Falling apart isn’t an option—not yet.

A nurse adjusts one of the machines in the corner, her movements precise and deliberate. I turn my head sharply, desperate for anything to distract me from the sight of Elena’s still form.

“Take your time,” the nurse says softly, her voice kind but distant. “Ms. Valencia,” the nurse continues, carefully now, as though she’s afraid I might shatter. “We’ll need you to sign some paperwork soon, but there’s no rush. Do you have someone we can call for you?”

“No,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the burden of the word. Oscar wouldn’t make it on time, and would he even care? “No, it’s just me.”

The nurse nods, her face unreadable, and leaves the room.

Silence envelops me, thick and unbearable. It’s filled with everything I should’ve said to Elena, all the calls I never made, all the moments I let slip away. Regret churns in my stomach, twisting with disbelief. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But it is.

I force my feet to move closer to the bed. Elena looks smaller than I remember, fragile in a way she never was before. Her hair has been brushed back neatly, her lips slightly parted, as though she’s about to say something. I hover, unsure whether to reach for her hand, unsure if it’s even my place anymore.

The door creaks open behind me, the sound cutting through the oppressive quiet. Soft footsteps approach, and then I feel it—a small, warm hand slipping into mine.

I glance down and see her. A small child that could be six, maybe seven. Her wide brown eyes stare up at me, brimming with fear and questions I don’t know how to answer.

“Mommy?” she whispers, her voice trembling. She runs closer to the bed, trying to climb it but I guess the tears aren’t helping her see what she’s doing. “Mommy, wake up.”

My heart breaks in ways I didn’t know were possible.

I help her climb onto the bed, her tiny frame curling against Elena’s still body. “Mom, please,” she sobs, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t leave me. Please wake up. You said you would get better, remember?”

The room spins, the grief too sharp, too overwhelming. I reach out instinctively, pulling the little one into my arms as her small body shakes with uncontrollable sobs.

“I’m here,” I whisper, my voice thick and unsteady.

She clings to me, her fingers digging into my sweater as she cries. Her pain is raw and unfiltered, and I hold her tighter, as though I can absorb it, as though I can make any of this better.

But I can’t.

And that realization shatters me all over again.