The hospital looked the same as the day before—quiet, sterile, humming softly beneath fluorescent lights. But something in me shifted the second I stepped through the doors. Maybe it was the weight of what I carried. Maybe it was that small message from Mark that morning, cold on the surface, but not quite empty.
"Edward asked if you were coming."
He hadn't asked me to come, or say you're welcome here, or anything with warmth. But he'd reached out. And somehow, I knew what that cost him.
I found them in the same room. Edward was in bed, propped up with an extra pillow, his eyes were closed, but I didn't know if he was asleep or just tired. Mark, in the armchair, pulled just slightly farther away from the bed.
Mark looked up when I entered. Not with surprise. Not with anger. Just… acknowledgement. His eyes met mine briefly, then dropped to the small notebook he'd been holding, though I could tell he hadn't been writing anything for a while.
