The woman lying on the hospital bed looked to be in her early fifties. Her long silver hair was tied back loosely, and her frame was painfully thin. The hospital gown hung loosely off her bony shoulders, with collarbones and joints jutting out through the fabric.
Her skin was ghostly pale, the kind of pallor that only illness could bring. Her eyes, though large and beautifully shaped, looked vacant—clouded over like a misted window. She seemed disconnected from reality, her gaze fixed somewhere far away.
Even in her fragile state, Quinn still carried an air of quiet elegance—something that hinted at the grace she once possessed. Beneath the sunken cheeks and frailty, a gentle kind of beauty remained.
In her arms, she cradled an antique porcelain doll—delicate and well-worn with age. Humming softly, she gently rocked it back and forth, singing under her breath:
"Sleep, my baby, sleep. Mother's arms will rock you, hold you close, and keep you safe."
