Machines hummed quietly behind sealed doors. Nurses spoke in lowered voices. Parents sat stiffly beside beds, holding hope the way people hold fragile glass—carefully, afraid it might break.
Inside Room 312, seven-year-old Mason Rivera pressed both palms against the isolation window.
Beyond the glass lay the hospital courtyard.
Trees moved with the wind. Leaves shifted across the pavement. Occasionally someone passed through the path on their way to another building.
To Mason, it felt like watching life through a television screen.
Six months earlier he had been a different child entirely.
He had run everywhere—across playgrounds, through the park, and down the sidewalk chasing the neighbor’s golden retriever named Daisy. His mother used to laugh and say Mason’s shoes must have springs hidden inside them.
