Nyara pov
The phone's shriek sliced through the quiet of my apartment, a jagged edge of sound that sent a jolt of pure panic through me. My fingers fumbled, clumsy with fear, as I snatched the receiver. The unfamiliar number on the screen pulsed with an ominous glow, a dark premonition settling in my stomach.
"Hello?" My voice was barely a whisper, trembling with a fear I couldn't name.
"Miss Nyara Alistair?" The woman's voice was smooth, professional, yet laced with a chilling undertone. "We're calling from S City Hospital. We have a family member of yours in ICU…"
The words crashed against me, a physical blow that stole the air from my lungs. "What? Who is it? What happened?" My mind raced, a frantic carousel of faces – Mom, Sarah, Leo.
"I'm sorry, Miss Alistair, I can't give you any details over the phone," she continued, her tone laced with a practiced sympathy. "But I urge you to come to the hospital as soon as possible. They're suffering from a concussion and are unconscious."
The line went dead. I didn't wait. I slammed the phone down, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. ICU. Family. The words echoed, a terrifying mantra. I had to get there.
I threw on the first shoes I could find, the laces forgotten. My reflection in the hallway mirror was a stranger – pale, wide-eyed, disheveled. Makeup, hair, it didn't matter. Only the raw, desperate need to know.
The city lights blurred, a dizzying kaleidoscope as I sped through the night. The hum of the engine, the hiss of tires on asphalt, the distant wail of a siren – all faded into a background hum, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
The hospital doors slid open, revealing a sterile, brightly lit world. "Nyara Alistair! I was called," I gasped, my voice raw with anxiety.
The nurse's gaze was soft, understanding. "Yes, this way."
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nostrils as I followed her down the echoing hallway. The elevator doors opened onto the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Pediatric? A cold dread gripped me. Why here?
The beeping of machines, the hushed whispers of nurses, the faint metallic tang of blood – it was a symphony of fear. We stopped at a door, and a doctor pulled me aside.
"It took us some time to locate you, Miss Alistair. We had to run blood tests. She'll be fine, we're just monitoring her."
She? My mind spun. "Can I…"
"It's alright, Miss Nyara. Your daughter will be fine. Let's go see her."
My daughter? The words were a foreign language. I stared at him, a silent question in my eyes.
"Yes, ma'am. Here's her file, with the DNA results. Follow me."
My legs moved on their own, numb and mechanical. The room was a blur of tubes and monitors. And then I saw her.
The little girl from the park. Her face, bruised and fragile, was nestled against the pillow. The sight of her, so small and vulnerable, tore at something deep within me. Tears welled up, hot and uncontrolled.
Then I saw it. The constellation of stars, etched on her arm, a perfect mirror of my own hidden mark. My breath hitched. How?
My hand trembled as I lifted her sleeve, confirming the impossible. The celestial map, the secret I'd carried for years, was mirrored on her skin.
Daughter? The DNA results in my hand were stark, undeniable proof. I was a mother, to this child, this stranger, this little girl from the park.
I sank into the chair beside her bed, the plastic cold against my skin. What was I supposed to do? How did this happen? What happened to you?
I watched her, every detail etched into my memory – the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her jaw, the rise and fall of her chest. Why me? I stared, searching for answers, for a connection, for something, anything, to make sense of this impossible reality.