Chapter 12 - THE SONG MIA NEVER FINISHED
Mia's health worsened in winter.
Her doctors adjusted her treatment plan.
There were more appointments.
More tests.
More nights when I sat beside her hospital bed pretending not to be afraid.
Dante offered help.
I accepted only what Mia and I were comfortable with.
He never made his support conditional.
He never asked for gratitude.
He simply showed up.
Sometimes with food.
Sometimes with books.
Sometimes with nothing but a quiet chair beside mine.
One evening, Mia looked at him.
“You're the scary mafia guy?”
Dante blinked.
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“Mia!”
She shrugged.
“What? That's what people call him.”
Dante smiled faintly.
“Apparently.”
Mia studied him.
“You don't look scary.”
“I'm sitting in a hospital chair.”
“Still.”
He laughed.
Mia looked toward me.
“He makes you smile.”
I blushed.
“Mia.”
She grinned.
“Just saying.”
Later, when Dante stepped outside, Mia took my hand.
“Clara.”
I looked at her.
“Yes?”
“Don't stop living because you're afraid something will happen to me.”
My throat tightened.
“Mia—”
“I mean it.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“You've spent years taking care of everyone.”
I looked down.
She continued.
“You deserve someone who takes care of you too.”
I began crying.
Mia smiled sadly.
“Hey.”
I looked up.
“I'm not going anywhere tonight.”
I laughed through tears.
“Good.”
She reached toward the small keyboard beside her bed.
“Play something.”
I hesitated.
“What?”
“The song you wrote for me.”
My heart tightened.
I'd started it years earlier.
A melody with a hopeful beginning and an unfinished ending.
I placed my fingers on the keys.
Played the first notes.
Mia closed her eyes.
When I reached the unfinished section, I stopped.
She opened one eye.
“Still haven't finished it?”
I smiled.
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Typical.”
We laughed.
Then she said:
“Finish it.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because stories deserve endings.”
I stared.
Then nodded.
“I will.”
That night, I sat beside her bed and wrote the final melody.
Not a sad ending.
Not a perfect one.
A hopeful ending.
One that allowed room for uncertainty.
For fear.
For love.
For life.
And when I played it the next morning, Mia smiled.
“That's better.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Bossy.”
She grinned.
“Always.”
Weeks later, her doctors told us her treatment was stabilizing her condition, though she would continue to need specialist care.
It wasn't a miracle.
May you like
It was progress.
And progress was enough to make us grateful.
