**The Final Hour** - by Sulihat Suleiman

The room was dim, the flickering light of a single candle casting long shadows on the peeling walls. It smelled of medicine and damp wood, the kind of scent that clings to places where life has long fought a losing battle. Clara lay on the iron-framed bed, her breaths shallow, her face pale against the dark tangle of her hair. Pain had become her closest companion, a relentless torment that pressed into her every joint, gnawed at her chest, and burned behind her eyes. It was not the sudden, sharp agony that startled you; no, it was the kind that stayed—an old friend that overstayed its welcome, whispering cruel reminders of its presence with every move, every thought. Outside the cracked window, the world seemed indifferent to her suffering. The wind carried the faint scent of rain, and the trees swayed, their branches scratching against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, its voice a faint echo in the silence that enveloped her room. She had lived a life marked by struggle. Her hands, now frail and trembling, bore the calluses of years spent laboring. Each wrinkle on her face told a story—of laughter and sorrow, of hope kindled and dreams lost. And now, in the final hours, those stories seemed to weigh on her like chains, dragging her down as she fought to breathe. Her daughter sat by the bedside, her hands clasped tightly around Clara’s. “I’m here, Mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Clara’s eyes, dim but still searching, turned toward her. There was a depth in them, a well of emotion too vast for words. “I’m not afraid of death,” Clara murmured, her voice as fragile as the flame of the candle beside her. “It’s the pain… it’s this bitter pain that grips me, that refuses to let me go.” Her daughter’s tears fell freely now, tracing lines down her cheeks. “I wish I could take it away,” she said. Clara managed a weak smile, one that spoke of love stronger than her agony. “You’ve already done more than I could ever ask. Just… stay with me. Let me leave this world knowing I am not alone.” The minutes stretched into hours, and the candle’s flame grew shorter. The pain surged and ebbed like a cruel tide, and Clara’s breaths came in shallow gasps. Memories danced before her eyes—her wedding day, the birth of her children, the first time she felt the warmth of the sun after a long winter. In the haze of her suffering, Clara began to speak, her voice rising above the silence. “Do you hear it?” she asked, her gaze fixed on something beyond the walls of the room. “The song… it’s beautiful.” Her daughter looked around, her heart breaking further. There was no music, only the mournful rustle of the wind. “What song, Mother?” Clara’s smile grew, her face softening as if the pain had lifted, if only for a moment. “The song of home,” she whispered. “It’s calling me.” The candle flickered once, twice, and then went out. For a moment, there was silence—complete and heavy, as if the world itself had paused. Then, the wind picked up, carrying with it the first drops of rain. The room seemed emptier, the air heavier, but there was also a strange peace. Clara’s daughter sat in the darkness, her mother’s hand still in hers. The bitterness of loss mixed with the faintest trace of relief, for the pain that had plagued Clara for so long was finally gone. Outside, the rain fell harder, washing the earth clean. ---

Other insights from Sulihat Suleiman