For ten years, Room 701 had been a chamber of quiet death in life. Leonard Whitmore, titan of industry, lay trapped in a mechanical rhythm of ventilators and monitors. To the world, he was a legend; to the doctors, a persistent vegetative state, a puzzle science had long given up on. Even his fortune—the wing he now occupied—was useless in the void of a coma.
That afternoon, the hospital halls echoed with the city’s storm. Malik, eleven, soaked and muddy, wandered into the restricted wing. His mother worked nights cleaning the floors; Malik knew the staff’s routines, the unlocked doors, the blind spots. Room 701 had always drawn his curiosity. Today, it drew his heart.
He stood by Leonard’s bed, studying the motionless face. To Malik, this wasn’t a CEO or a headline. This was someone left behind.
“My grandma was like you,” Malik whispered, “trapped in silence while everyone pretends you’re gone.”
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