The TV muttered quietly in the corner as evening settled. Tula stared past it. Her breath came slowly, heavily. The room felt smaller than it had in the morning. More observed. More staged. As if someone was waiting for her to make a decision she didn’t believe in.
A nurse entered quietly with a clipboard. “Mrs. Abraham? I just need your signature for the extended genetic panel.” Tula reached for the pen, hand trembling slightly. She glanced at the form, only idly at first—until her eyes caught the printed text: Date of birth: 7 May 1980.