The Fall Risk

By [Zohaib]

The hospital room was cold, sterile, and smelled of antiseptic. Clara sat by the window, her frail hands resting on the armrests of the wheelchair. Her silver hair caught the faint sunlight filtering through the blinds, and her eyes, though clouded with age, still held a spark of defiance.

“I’m not a fall risk,” she muttered, glaring at the nurse who was adjusting her IV.

The nurse, a young woman with a kind smile, chuckled softly. “Everyone over 65 is considered a fall risk, Mrs. Thompson. It’s just protocol.”

Clara huffed. “Protocol. That’s what they always say. Back in my day, we didn’t need protocols. We just lived.”

The nurse finished her work and left the room, leaving Clara alone with her thoughts. She hated hospitals. They reminded her of loss, of the countless times she’d sat in rooms like this, waiting for news that never came. First her husband, then her son, and now… well, now it was her turn.

But Clara wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.

The Letter

It was a week earlier when Clara had found the letter. She’d been cleaning out her attic, something she’d been putting off for years. The dust had made her cough, and the boxes were heavier than she remembered, but she pressed on.

At the bottom of an old trunk, beneath a stack of yellowed photographs and faded dresses, she found it. A small, cream-colored envelope with her name written in elegant cursive. She recognized the handwriting immediately.

James.

Her hands trembled as she opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the edges slightly frayed with age. She unfolded it and began to read.

*“My dearest Clara,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I never wanted to leave you, but life has a way of taking us by surprise. There’s so much I never told you, so much I wish I could say. But there’s one thing you need to know.

In the backyard, beneath the old oak tree, I buried a box. It’s for you. Inside, you’ll find the answers to questions you didn’t even know you had.

I love you, Clara. Always have, always will.

Yours forever,
James”*

Clara’s heart raced as she finished the letter. James had been gone for over twenty years, and yet, his words felt as fresh as if he’d written them yesterday. She didn’t know what to think, but one thing was certain: she had to find that box.

The Fall

The oak tree was still there, its branches stretching toward the sky like ancient arms. Clara stood at the base of the tree, a shovel in her hands. She’d been digging for what felt like hours, her muscles aching with every thrust of the shovel.

And then, she hit something.

Her breath caught in her throat as she knelt down and brushed away the dirt. It was a small metal box, rusted with age but still intact. She pried it open with trembling hands, her heart pounding in her chest.

Inside was a stack of letters, a photograph, and a small, velvet pouch. The photograph was of James and a young boy, no more than five years old. Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she realized who the boy was.

Their son.

But that wasn’t possible. Their son had died in a car accident when he was just a baby. Or at least, that’s what she’d been told.

The letters told a different story. They were from James, written over the years, addressed to their son. Each one was filled with love, regret, and a secret that shattered Clara’s world.

Their son hadn’t died. He’d been taken.

The Truth

Clara’s legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to the ground. The letters spilled from her hands, scattering in the dirt. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All she could do was stare at the photograph, at the boy who looked so much like James.

And then, she remembered.

The accident. The hospital. The doctor’s somber face as he told her the news. She’d been so grief-stricken, so broken, that she hadn’t questioned it. But now, the pieces were falling into place.

James had known. He’d always known.

Clara’s vision blurred as tears streamed down her face. She clutched the photograph to her chest, her heart breaking all over again.

The Choice

Back in the hospital room, Clara stared out the window, the photograph still in her hands. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to start. But one thing was clear: she couldn’t let this go.

She wasn’t just a fall risk. She was a fighter.

And she would find her son.