The rhythmic beeping of the ECG machine was the only sound in the hospital room. A fifteen-year-old girl, thin and pale, lay motionless in the center of it all. The erratic signals on the monitor had sent the medical team into a flurry. One nurse stood by her, checking her vital signs, while two others attempted to calm the distraught parents nearby.

“Has someone called the doctor?” one nurse asked, her voice tight with urgency.

“He’s on his way!”

The elderly couple stood a few feet away from the bed, their eyes fixed on their daughter, Arjezthea Hale. The mother clung to her husband’s chest, sobbing quietly, as if the tears themselves could ease the growing tension. He held her, but his face betrayed him; fear was etched in every line. His hands trembled as he stroked his wife’s back, whispering empty assurances that everything would be okay, though his voice cracked under the weight of his own fear.

Moments later, the door swung open, and a doctor in his forties strode in, his expression grim. He wore the white coat of his profession, but the tired lines on his face hinted at years of struggle with cases just like this.

“Doctor, please!” The mother broke from her husband’s embrace, collapsing at the doctor's feet. “Save her! Please, save my daughter!”

"Get the parents out," the doctor ordered firmly, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in the room.

The two nurses gently guided the parents out, despite the mother’s initial refusal. Her husband, though equally shattered, whispered that they needed to let the doctor do his job. Reluctantly, she followed, her tear-filled eyes casting one last look at her daughter before the door shut behind them.

Arjezthea watched them leave, her eyes filling with tears that mirrored her mother's. A single drop slid down her cheek, a silent acknowledgment of the inevitable. She wasn’t afraid of dying. After all, she had been bedridden for nearly half her life. The thought of falling asleep and not waking up was, in some ways, a relief.

But she wasn’t crying for herself. Her heart broke for her parents. She knew the pain this would bring them, and the burden she had always been. They had sacrificed so much—too much—for her. From the day she was diagnosed with severe aplastic anemia at age six, their lives had changed forever. Their joy at having their “miracle” baby had been short-lived.

Aplastic anemia was rare, but it was relentless. Arjezthea’s bone marrow had stopped producing enough blood cells, and despite initial treatments, nothing had worked. Her condition had worsened, slowly stealing her strength over the years. A bone marrow transplant had been their last hope. After waiting years for a suitable donor, they had finally found one. For a while, it seemed like the nightmare might be over.

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But life had other plans.

Not long after the transplant, Arjezthea began experiencing severe abdominal pain, nausea, and fatigue. Tests confirmed what they had feared: graft-versus-host disease. Her body was rejecting the transplant. Her immune system had attacked her liver, skin, and digestive system. Despite aggressive treatment, her organs had begun to fail.

The gods are cruel, she thought bitterly. If they were going to take her away from her parents, why had they given her to them in the first place? Her existence had been a curse, not a gift. They would have been better off without her—no hospital bills, no endless waiting lists, no empty hopes. Her parents had lost everything: their house, their savings, their health. They had aged rapidly, their bodies worn down by years of stress, exhaustion, and grief. It was too much.

Arjezthea hated that she had ruined their lives. They had given up so much for her, and for what?

"I'm sorry..." Those were her last thoughts.

Beeeeeep.

The doctor moved swiftly, his eyes immediately locking onto the flatline on the ECG. The sharp, continuous beep echoed in the small room like an ominous warning. The nurses were already in action—one was providing oxygen through a bag-valve mask while the other prepared the defibrillator.

"Start compressions! Now!" the doctor ordered.

A nurse climbed onto a step stool beside the bed and began chest compressions, her hands positioned in the center of Arjezthea’s chest, pushing hard and fast. The second nurse stood by, counting each compression aloud.

“Thirty!” the nurse called out, pausing briefly to allow the doctor to deliver two breaths through the mask. Arjezthea’s chest rose slightly with each breath, but her body remained still, unresponsive.

“Resume compressions!” the doctor urged, quickly assessing the ECG. Still no signs of life.

“Epinephrine, 1 mg IV, now!” he ordered.

One nurse administered the drug through the IV line as the other resumed compressions. The doctor glanced at the clock on the wall, mentally tracking the minutes. With no change in the flatline, he stepped toward the defibrillator.

“Charge to 200. Clear!”

The nurse stepped back as the doctor placed the paddles on Arjezthea’s chest. Her body jerked as the shock was delivered, but the ECG remained flat.

“Resume CPR,” the doctor commanded, his tone steady but urgent.

The nurse immediately continued compressions, sweat beading on her forehead from the effort. “Come on, come on...” she whispered under her breath as she worked. The relentless beep of the ECG filled the room, a reminder that time was slipping away.

“Charge to 300. Clear!”

Again, the doctor delivered a shock, and again, no response. Arjezthea’s body jolted briefly, but the flatline persisted on the monitor.

After checking her pulse and finding none, the doctor shook his head slightly, his face grim. “Continue CPR,” he said, but his voice had lost its earlier urgency. The nurses continued compressions and ventilation, though their movements had slowed slightly, fatigue and despair setting in.

After several more minutes of unsuccessful efforts, the doctor finally raised a hand to halt the team. He pulled off his gloves and took a deep breath, the weight of the situation heavy in the room.

“Time of death: 6:50 PM,” he said quietly, glancing at the clock.

The nurses exchanged solemn looks as one of them silently moved to the door to inform the grieving parents.