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The fluorescent hum of St. Jude's Children's Hospital was a constant, irritating buzz in Aisha's ears, a soundtrack to her waking nightmare.

Diya, a wisp of a girl with eyes usually bright as morning stars, lay pale against the white sheets, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Her small hand, usually lively and clutching Aisha's, felt too light, too still.

​"Didu," Diya mumbled, her voice a reedy whisper, "My chest hurts."

​Aisha's heart fractured a little more. "I know, jaan. Just a little more rest.

The doctors are trying their best." She smoothed Diya's wispy hair, forcing a smile that felt brittle.

Diya, at seven, was too young for this. Too young for the endless tests, the needles, the hushed consultations that always ended with Aisha's stomach clenching.

​Dr. Sharma met her outside Diya's room, his expression grave. "Aisha, we've reviewed the latest scans. Diya's condition is worsening faster than we anticipated. The conventional treatments... they're just not working anymore." He paused, adjusting his glasses.

"There's a new procedure, experimental, but it has a high success rate for cases like Diya's. It's only available overseas, in specialized clinics."

​"How much?" Aisha asked, her voice flat, already knowing the answer would be impossible.

​Dr. Sharma sighed, looking away. "It's... substantial. We're talking millions, Aisha.

Your insurance won't cover it, and the hospital's charity fund is stretched thin."

He handed her a brochure with a European clinic's name emblazoned on it, the figures inside blurring before her eyes. Millions. A number so astronomical it felt like a cruel joke.

​Aisha thanked him mechanically, clutching the brochure as she walked down the sterile corridor, the numbers echoing in her head like a death knell.

She passed a large,big advertisement for the new Raichand Tower, its futuristic spires piercing the city skyline, a symbol of obscene wealth.

Raichand Luxury Resorts, another billboard blared from outside the hospital window. Siddharth Raichand's empire. A world away from her crushing reality.

​Later that evening, in the cramped, familiar comfort of their small apartment.

Aisha stared at the stack of unpaid bills. Electricity. Rent. Diya's old medical expenses.

Each one a tiny knife twist. She worked two jobs - waitressing at a diner by day, cleaning offices by night - barely sleeping, pushing herself to the brink.

It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

She picked up a worn photo: Diya, vibrant and laughing, building a sandcastle on their last beach trip, her smile wide and free.

Aisha pressed it to her cheek, the cardboard cool against her hot tears. Diya deserved that smile back. She deserved a future.

​Millions.

​The word twisted in her gut, a desperate, impossible ache. She had nothing left to lose. But what, or who, could she possibly give to save her sister?

As the city lights twinkled outside her window, painting fleeting patterns on the worn carpet, Aisha felt a cold resolve harden in her chest.

She would find a way. No matter the cost.

To be continued

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