A cold wind whispered through the empty hospital corridor as Sara clutched the tiny stuffed bear in her hand. It was worn out, its fur thinned in places from years of being held, but it still carried the faint scent of lavender. Her mother’s scent.
Sara hadn’t seen her mother in two years—after the diagnosis, things went downhill fast. Cancer. Stage four. The doctors said there wasn’t much time, but her mother still smiled every day, told Sara stories, and made her promise to chase her dreams, not stay by her bedside waiting.
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“I want to see you fly, not fall,” her mother had whispered the last time they hugged.
So Sara left for college, even though every cell in her body screamed to stay. She called often, sent letters, and came home on breaks. But this time, she was too late.
Her plane landed a few hours after the call. "She’s gone," her brother had said.
Now, standing by the hospital bed, everything felt quiet. Too quiet. Her mother looked peaceful, almost like she had just fallen asleep. On the table beside the bed was a box—wrapped neatly in soft blue paper and tied with a ribbon.
“To Sara. Open when you’re ready.”
With trembling hands, Sara opened it. Inside was a journal, the same one her mother used to write in every night. A note fell out:Tears streamed down Sara’s face as she held the journal close. And then, tucked between the pages, she saw something else. A plane ticket—dated for next summer. It was to Paris, the place her mother always wanted to take her. Paid for, planned, and with a note:In that moment, Sara understood. Her mother didn’t want her to mourn—she wanted her to live. To keep smiling. To chase her dreams like they were both still watching the sunrise together.She pressed the bear to her chest, took a deep breath, and whispered, “I promise.”
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