Lyka woke just before sunrise, wrapped in thin blanket and strange quiet.
Usually she greeted morning with soft squeaks and restless fingers.
Today she did not move.
Her eyes opened slowly, glassy and tired, as if sleep had never refreshed her.
The caregiver touched her gently and felt the heat at once.
Lyka was burning with fever.
She tried to lift her head and failed, letting out a weak, broken sound.
Fear rushed in fast and sharp.
Only an hour ago Lyka had been playful and curious, climbing and exploring without fear.
Now her tiny body shook with sudden illness that came without warning or reason.
Warm cloths were prepared quickly and laid across her small chest and back.
The caregiver whispered steady comfort, refusing to let panic speak louder than love.
A few careful drops of water touched Lyka’s lips, and she swallowed weakly.
Her fingers twitched as if fighting to hold on to the world.
Each breath sounded uneven, fragile, and far too small.
Time moved painfully slow as the fever rose and fell in waves.
Sometimes Lyka opened her eyes and searched for the familiar face.
Sometimes she drifted again into heavy, restless sleep.
The caregiver never left her side, counting breaths, feeling tiny heartbeats, praying silently for strength she could not give alone.
The sickness had no explanation, no visible wound, no clear enemy to fight.
Yet the fight continued inside Lyka’s small trembling body.
Near afternoon, her breathing softened just a little.
The heat eased enough for hope to return.
Lyka tightened her grip slightly today.
