The sterile scent of antiseptic and sickness hung heavy in the air, but Sarah had long grown used to it. Hospitals were places of both beginnings and endings, and today, she feared, would be the latter. The room was dimly lit, despite the morning sun pressing gently against the curtains. Machines beeped in rhythm like an unsettling lullaby. Wanda Graham lay still on the hospital bed, her thin frame wrapped in sheets too white for comfort. Her skin was paper-thin and marked with age, but there was a grace to her even now—grace that no illness could ever strip away.
Sarah sat beside her, her hand resting gently over Wanda's. Her fingers traced the lines of the older woman's skin, memorizing the wrinkles, the warmth. Her heart was heavy, a storm swelling within her. Wanda wasn't just a guardian. She was the only person who ever truly believed in her.
Sarah had been just ten when she escaped the mental hospital. Before that, she had been institutionalized at the age of eight. Her family, terrified of what they didn't understand, had locked her away instead of listening to her. They called her delusional, dangerous even. But she wasn't. She had a gift—or a curse, depending on who you asked. Sarah saw things. Things others couldn't see.
Spirits. Ghosts. Shadows that moved without light.
She tried to tell people. She tried to be brave. But bravery came at a cost. And so they shut her away.
It was on a cold autumn night that she fled. The details of her escape were forever burned into her memory—the distant howls of the wind, the way her bare feet slapped against cold linoleum, the sound of sirens in the distance, and her breath, short and terrified. And then, like a miracle sent by something higher, there was Wanda.
Blind, yet all-seeing. Alone, yet never lonely. Wanda Graham had taken Sarah in without question, without hesitation. A black woman in her late sixties, she had lived in a crumbling brownstone on the east side of the city, surrounded by strange trinkets, the scent of herbs, and a quiet strength that made the house feel like sanctuary. She had listened to Sarah's story and, to the young girl's shock, had believed every word.
Wanda had whispered, "You ain't cursed, child. You're touched. The world gave you eyes it forgot to give others. That's a blessing, not a burden."
Seventeen now, Sarah had spent seven years under Wanda's protection, growing, learning, surviving. Wanda had taught her how to control her emotions, how to cope with the voices, the flickers of spirits in the corners of her eyes. She helped her channel her ability, not bury it. And more than that, Wanda had given her love.
Now, she was slipping away.
Sarah rose quietly from the chair and whispered, "I'll be right back, okay? Just need to freshen up."
Wanda's chest rose and fell in slow, labored motion, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful. Sarah left the room with reluctance, her steps heavy as she walked toward the restroom. Splashing cold water on her face, she looked into the mirror. Her reflection looked more fragile than usual, eyes red-rimmed from nights of sleeplessness. She tried to steel herself.
As she stepped into the hallway, she froze.
Wanda.
Standing there. Upright. Smiling. Wearing her favorite blue robe, the one she hadn't worn in weeks.
"Wanda?" Sarah called out, stunned. "What are you doing out here? You can't walk right now—come on, let's get you back to bed."
Wanda smiled softly, her head tilted slightly. "My beautiful Sarah… I love you so much."
Sarah blinked, suddenly uneasy. Something felt off. The air around Wanda shimmered subtly. There was no shadow beneath her feet.
"You're strong, girl," Wanda continued. "You've been through fire, and yet you walk like the wind. You got a light in you. The world's gonna try to snuff it out, but don't let it. Promise me, you'll stay brave. Stay kind. And for heaven's sake, don't skip your meals."
Sarah's heart started to race. "Wanda… don't talk like that."
"This world is dark," Wanda said, her voice almost echoing now, otherworldly. "But your gift… it's light. A light for lost souls. You help them find their way. That's your purpose, child. That's your mark."
Sarah took a step forward. "Stop it, Wanda. You're scaring me. Let's get back to the room. You need to rest."
But Wanda just smiled again, eyes twinkling with something ancient. "No need. I'm already there."
The hallway dimmed, the lights flickering for a split second.
And she was gone.
Sarah stood frozen, tears brimming in her eyes. A sound escaped her lips—a desperate, choked sob—and she sprinted down the hall, crashing into the door of Wanda's room. She threw it open.
There, still in the bed, was Wanda's body. Pale. Still. Silent. Lifeless.
Sarah dropped to her knees, crawling to the bedside. "No, no, no, no… please, not you," she cried, clutching Wanda's hand in both of hers. "Please don't leave me. Don't go. I'm not ready."
The machines had flatlined. Nurses and doctors burst into the room moments later, ushering in emergency procedures, but Sarah already knew. Wanda's soul had already said goodbye.
They gave her space, murmuring condolences, but none could understand the weight of that loss.
Later, as she sat alone in the hospital chapel, Sarah closed her eyes and listened—not just with her ears, but with that part of her soul that Wanda had helped nurture. And faintly, just faintly, she heard Wanda's voice again.
"Remember what I said, Sarah. This world will try to drown you, but you—you're the lighthouse."
She opened her eyes, no longer crying, but with new resolve.
Wanda had given her life. Now, Sarah would give purpose to hers.
She would help the lost. She would guide the wandering. And she would never, ever let anyone call her cursed again.
She was Sarah. She was marked. And the journey was just beginning.