FIFTY TWO

Entering the large vault inside, what an ordinary bedroom would look like. It was tidy enough for a woman in her late 40s or early 50s to tidy enough to fit her personality. On the walls are paintings that show off her creativity.

"M-Mom," Don stuttered, too shocked.

I hear her call out to her in a sorrowful tone as my eyes travel to the woman sitting on the chair leaning forward, making her hand gently stroke moments with her brush as she paints on the unfinished canvas. This woman's poster shows off how elegant and refined she is, her long dark brown hair in a long braid draped over her shoulder as her eyes are focused on the painting, unaware of our presence.

In the corner of my eyes, I see the heart monitor and the IV drip with the wire and tubes connected to her.

After she leans back to check her painting, she suddenly notices us and flashes us with a smile. Her dark, soft eyes met mine. "Hello, may I help you? Are you the new nurses?"

I glance at Don and find him grinning; his e