Lyka slipped quietly into the pale morning light wrapped in blankets scented with medicine and fading hope. Through the long night her breathing had grown shallow and uneven, each rise of her chest watched in fear. Caregivers whispered prayers, counting seconds, holding tiny fingers, refusing to believe the fight was ending.
She had fallen sick without warning, a sudden storm inside a body barely begun with life. No one ever discovered the cruel reason her strength vanished so fast. Fever burned, weakness stole her voice, and the smallest breaths became precious prayers rising from trembling lips into waiting hearts around her.
Milk once warmed her now touched lips that could barely swallow. Medicine dripped like hope measured drop by drop. Still Lyka fought, clinging to guidance in every gentle touch and whispered promise that she was not alone in the darkness of sickness. Even when her eyes closed, her fingers held tight.
At dawn the room fell strangely quiet. The machines sounded too loud against the stillness growing inside her. One final breath trembled through her chest, smaller than all before. Then there was only silence, heavy and final in the arms that refused to let her go just yet though she had.
Tears fell without sound onto her cooling face, tracing the paths of love and helpless goodbye. Lyka’s small body rested at last, free from the pain that had claimed her so suddenly. She did not struggle now, did not tremble with fever, did not fight for breath anymore. Peace came.
She was wrapped once more in softness, in farewell kisses and shaking hands. Caregivers spoke her name one last time, promising she would be remembered, not as sickness, but as the tiny soul who tried so bravely to live. Lyka’s story ended softly, her memory will remain.
