1: The Price of a Life

Lyra's POV

“Doctor, please… you have to save my mother,” I pleaded, rushing behind him as he walked briskly down the hospital hallway. My breath came out uneven, more from anxiety than exhaustion. “I promise I’ll pay. I’ll get the money somehow, just give me a little more time.”

He didn’t even stop walking. “Miss, I’m sorry,” he said without turning. “I can't begin surgery without payment. I have my license to think of. Please stop following me.”

He disappeared into his office and shut the door, leaving me frozen in place, the dull ache in my chest growing heavier.

I felt the stares before I saw them. People passed by, glancing my way. Not because I was particularly stunning — though some say I have a pretty face — but because of my body. I’m not slim like the women in the magazines or the ones working behind the front desks. I’m chubby. Thick. Big-boned. Call it whatever you like. But in this world, my body feels like a sin.

Unlike the other girls my age, I don't have the luxury of salons, spas, or skincare routines. My curly hair sat in a frizzy puff, unkempt and dry. I looked like someone who hadn’t cared in weeks — because, truthfully, I hadn’t had the time or money to.

I turned back, ignoring the pitiful or judgmental glances, and made my way toward the room where Mom was admitted. As I entered, I found her sleeping on the hospital bed.

I curled up beside the wall, exhausted.

Sleep came in waves. Then came the memories.

The dark alley.

The footsteps.

The drunken breath.

I whimpered in my sleep, tossing slightly. My fists clenched unconsciously at my sides.

“No… please… don’t…!”

I saw the man again — faceless, fumbling, reeking of alcohol. His hand over my mouth. My screams swallowed by shadows.

And then — the sharp sting as I reached for my earring…

I remembered slashing at his leg.

The blood.

The silence.

And then — nothing.

The memory shifted. A different scene. Warm light this time.

Mila’s arms were wrapped around me, her eyes full of pain and sisterly love.

“Lyra, don’t do it. Don’t abort the child. That child is yours. She didn’t ask for any of this… she deserves a chance.”

I clutched my swollen belly, sobbing into Mila’s chest.

“But I don’t even know who the father is…”

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Mila whispered. “You’ll be the mother. That’s enough.”

I jolted awake, heart pounding, soaked in sweat, as I heard Mom crying.

I sat up, covering my mouth as I sobbed silently.

“Mom… please don’t cry,” I said, stepping closer and reaching for her cold hands.

She turned her face toward me, her cheeks stained with tears, eyes puffy from constant weeping. “Lyra… how can I not cry?” her voice trembled. “It’s been three years since Mila disappeared. My daughter just vanished without a trace. And now, I’m here… like this. I’m tired, baby. So tired.”

Her words hit me like a stab to the chest.

“I’m still trying, Mom,” I whispered. “I haven’t stopped looking for her. You’ll see, Mila will come back. And you… you’ll get through this surgery. I swear it.”

She closed her eyes, and more tears slipped out.

The door creaked, and I turned to see my father slowly entering the room, using his wooden walking stick for support. His back was more bent than it had been last week, and his hair looked thinner, whiter. His body aged by grief more than time.

“Lyra, why bring up this Mila matter now that your mother’s barely holding on?” he asked in his weathered voice.

“I didn’t, Dad. I just came in and found her crying,” I explained, gently helping him sit in the chair beside the bed. His bones cracked as he sat, and my heart cracked with them.

“Have you… have you found anyone willing to help?” I asked him quietly.

He shook his head with a tired sigh. “No one. They all look at me with pity, but no one wants to give me a dime. They say I’m too old to pay back a loan… and that my daughter—” he looked at me with guilt in his eyes, “—well, that you don’t have a job, and with your… body shape, they claim you won’t get one.”

I looked away, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.

There it was again.

That weight, heavier than the fat on my bones. The judgment. The rejection. The cruel reality that being chubby in this society somehow made me less deserving of help, of love, of compassion.

But I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t worthless. I was just broke. And broken.

People wouldn’t even let me sweep their offices without throwing me disgusting offers — and only if I was willing to “pay” with my dignity.

Was it my fault I never went to high school? My parents had no money, and Mila’s disappearance had swallowed the little hope we once had. Still, I kept looking. For her. For work. For anything.

And through all that, Dad used to tell me:

"Your mother and I were betrayed by people we once trusted like family."

"We were once rich, Lyra. But we lost everything in one day."

Back then, I didn’t understand what he meant. Now, I could feel every word in my bones.

I stared down at my mother’s fragile hand in mine. The veins under her skin were visible, her breath shallow.

“Mom, just hold on. Please. I’ll find a way,” I murmured.

The door creaked again. The doctor entered, but this time, he didn’t ignore us. He looked at my dad and sighed.

“I… I might have someone who could help you,” he said carefully.

My father and I both looked up at once.

“Really?” I asked. “Who? Please — whatever it takes —”

He held up a hand. “Don’t rush. I said may. This man has… strict conditions. You need to understand — if you go to him, there’s no turning back.”

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly, my stomach turning cold.

The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver.

“His terms are dangerous.”