The rain fell in sheets, blurring the road ahead. Daniel gripped the steering wheel, glancing at Aisha in the back seat. She held their feverish daughter, Zara, rocking her gently.

"Just a little longer, sweetheart," she whispered, brushing damp curls from the child's forehead.

Zara whimpered. Her tiny chest rose and fell in shallow gasps.

Daniel pressed the accelerator. The hospital was minutes away. Then—headlights. A truck veering out of control. Aisha's scream.

Impact.

Silence.

Daniel woke to the taste of blood. His ribs ached, his vision spun, but none of it mattered.

“Aisha?” His voice cracked.

No response.

He turned. Aisha's arms were wrapped around Zara, shielding her in those final moments. Her body was still.

Zara’s breath hitched. “Daddy?”

Relief crashed over him. She was alive. But Aisha—

He couldn't even scream.

The funeral was a blur of voices and hands on his shoulders. He barely heard them. Aisha had died saving their daughter. He couldn’t let that sacrifice be for nothing.

The medical bills came fast. Zara’s illness worsened. Daniel worked double shifts, sold his car, begged for loans. He counted every coin, slept in hospital chairs. Every breath she took was proof he hadn’t failed her—hadn’t failed Aisha.

Until the night Zara’s fingers curled weakly in his.

“Daddy?” Her voice was paper-thin.

“I’m here, princess.”

She smiled. “Mommy’s here too.”

His heart stopped. “What?”

Zara exhaled softly. “I’m not scared anymore.”

The machines beeped unstoppably. Nurses rushed in. Hands pulled him back. He screamed opposing the pull.

Then—stillness.

Daniel stood before a second grave, earth fresh, heart hollow.

Aisha had died to save Zara.

And now, Zara had followed.

The wind whispered through the trees, a sound almost like Aisha’s voice. He closed his eyes.

For the first time, he let himself cry.