As Zara opened the paper, her eyes scanned her information until it ended at the edge. Her gaze fell, her face dropping in disappointment.
"I got my hopes high again," she muttered, her voice shaky and almost inaudible.
"I'm sorry, Miss Blackwood, but it would be best to get chemotherapy. There isn't a chance of survival, but…" He paused, his face washed with sorrow as he gazed at Zara, who was trying to hold back her tears.
"No, there's no need," Zara said, attempting to stand up despite her weak legs, but she stopped when Mr. Smith spoke up.
"The chemotherapy doesn't guarantee a full recovery since the brain tumor has infiltrated to a significant depth, but it can still help reduce the pain," he said, pressing the issue further.
Zara chuckled, a hint of sorrow evident. "Pain? There's nothing more painful than dying in the end," she said, her body so weak she could hardly carry her legs to stand up.
Her gaze settled on her wounded hand, and a deep laugh escaped her lips. Dr. Smith stared at her, utterly speechless, his eyes seeming to ask, Was she running mad?
But maybe she really was going to run mad.
"I can't believe I took in that old woman," she mumbled to herself, ruffling her hair with her hand.
Her laughter echoed within the room as she noticed the doctor's speechless gaze. He couldn't understand her. If he did, he wouldn't be looking at her that way.
Eleven months to live? Live, you say? No, it wasn't to live—it was to endure pain for eleven months until she was freed from this cruel fate that had been bestowed on her.
The laughter brought tears to her eyes. She didn't realize she was laughing hard while holding her belly.
Why had she even taken the woman's words seriously? Why did she think that simply going to the old cemetery house and asking for a ridiculous wish would be granted to her?
Why was it her? Why couldn't it have been someone else?
If only her parents were here—or rather, if only she had found her parents' killers. If she could turn back time, she would happily leave this world.
If only she had fulfilled her dreams of owning a bakery and finding someone who would love her endlessly.
Endlessly?
She stopped laughing and turned toward the doctor again with a fulfilled smile. Despite the tears threatening to fall, she managed to keep them in.
She placed her hands on the table and put on a cold smile. If only the doctor knew what she was about to ask.
"Has anyone with a brain tumor gotten pregnant?" she asked with a goofy smile.
Dr. Smith, who had looked speechless before, widened his eyes in surprise. His eyebrows arched, and his lips parted slightly, as if he'd been caught off guard by a sudden gust of wind.
For a fleeting moment, his usual professional gaze faltered, revealing a glimpse of perplexity. His gaze drifted from Zara's face to her hands, still resting on the table, and back again.
"Ah…" he began, his voice hesitant, his eyes taking on a quizzical gaze as he searched for hidden meaning behind Zara's words.
He cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Zara's face as he said with folded hands, "It's a rare case, but it's possible."
The silence that followed was heavy with tension. Dr. Smith's eyes probed Zara's, seeking meaning, but her goofy smile only deepened, leaving him bewildered.
He couldn't tell what she was thinking, and she didn't want him to know. She wasn't interested in his age-old advice about chemotherapy that couldn't save a person's life.
"But it depends on the…" He sat up, but before he could complete his phrase, Zara dashed out with a loud bang, startling the people who were waiting for their turn to see their doctors.
She stood confidently, clenching the edge of her white gown.
Rather than crying and hoping, live for yourself, just for these remaining eleven months, she thought, and her lips curled into a smile.
The people stared at her with curiosity, probably thinking she was crazy for smiling to herself.
But she didn't care about what the crowd thought of her. She wasn't going to live for them but for herself.
She was going to stop worrying about what people thought of her because she was Zara and not them.
With that thought in her mind, she plastered a huge grin on her face and walked confidently, avoiding their gazes.
Zara wondered why she hadn't thought of that before.
She wondered why she had always cared about others but never thought of herself. She realized she had been too harsh on herself.
But rather than blaming herself for things in the past, she would focus on the present and future.
And that meant she was going to do all the things she had never done before or hadn't had time for, including getting pregnant by Zayden, building her dream bakery, and, lastly, finding her parents' and siblings' killers…
She wasn't watching where she was going until someone bumped her shoulder.
"Sorry," she said apologetically as she bowed her head, but she didn't get a reply.
She raised her head to see the figure—a man in a black sweater—walking far ahead.
She hadn't seen his face but wondered why his back seemed so familiar.
Scratching her nape, she continued on her way with the thought of going to the police station.
Zara stood in front of the police station that majestically stood like a fortress, its imposing structure exuding authority and order.
Her gaze landed on the signboard by the door. There was a text that read, "Police is your friend."
She gritted her teeth and furrowed her brows.
The words she read annoyed her so much that she felt like destroying the signboard.
When she had come here eleven years ago, they hadn't done anything and kept promising her that they would find her brother's and parents' bodies and killer, though she knew they wouldn't do anything. But she kept being hopeful.
But eleven years ago, she had been dumb to leave without any answers to her unending questions. Now, at twenty-four years old, she was more determined to find the killer.
At that time, they had found the teddy bear she had told her parents to get for her at the scene, along with her mother's favorite necklace.
She reached for her neck and caressed the necklace as if holding onto it could somehow keep her closer to the answers she wanted.
I promise to find whoever killed you.
With determination, she wore her mask and entered the reception area, bustling with criminals and victims.
The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee, worn furniture, and the faint tang of cigarettes.
Zara glanced around to see officers in crisp uniforms hurrying past, their badges glinting.
Badges they hadn't earned with justice but with corruption.
The old hags didn't care about the truth; instead, they covered the truth and faked a lie, and they spoke of "Police is your friend."
Friend, my foot, Zara thought.
The sound of keyboards clacking, phones ringing, and chaotic conversations filled the air.
"Good day, ma'am. How may we be of help?" a young officer said with a soft smile, and Zara's eyes stopped scanning around the station.
The man looked like he was in his late 20s and was also handsome.
She could tell he was an officer since he was wearing their uniform—a pair of trousers and a blue long-sleeve shirt.
Her eyes darted around again, wishing she could find someone who truly served justice, but the man in front of her looked more reserved.
Her eyes searched his brown eyes for reassurance.
But would just looking into his eyes give her the answer she was looking for? Justice?
Zara sighed and adjusted her mask, which was covering her nose. "I'm here for information concerning the Bluebird Death case. Something you people missed few years ago," she said, her skepticism evident.
Before she could process her thoughts, the young man took her by the wrist and led her outside in a rush.