The days blurred into a routine after that—me swinging by the hospital every afternoon, armed with a fresh bouquet of white lilies clutched in my hand. It started as a way to shut down Raphael's endless teasing about flowers, but now it just felt like habit.
He'd spot me in the doorway, that easy smile lighting up his face, and hit me with some corny joke right off the bat: "Back again with my favorites? Careful, Remi, or I'll start thinking you're wooing me for real."
I'd just roll my eyes, plop the flowers in the vase by his bed, and settle into the chair, pretending it didn't get to me.
All the while, I was scanning for any sign of the Rakshesha's mark—watching for flickers of dark energy, odd twitches in his aura, anything that screamed "curse incoming." But with nurses popping in, Angela calling every other hour, or Raphael himself chatting away, I never got a real shot. It was frustrating, like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
