But in a coma, power meant nothing.
They called it a “persistent vegetative state.” No response. No awareness. No sign that the man he once was still existed.
Only his wealth kept the private hospital wing running.
Only his body remained.
After ten years, even hope had faded.
Doctors were preparing to transfer him to long-term care. No more aggressive treatment. No more “what ifs.”
That was the morning Amina wandered into Room 701.
Amina was eleven. Small, quiet, often barefoot. Her mother worked nights cleaning the hospital floors, and Amina stayed after school because she had nowhere else to go.
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