The morning was soft, pale light spilling gently through the curtains. Birds chirped outside, their songs delicate and sweet, but inside Lydia's room, silence was heavy, almost oppressive. She stirred in the warmth of the bed, her hand brushing against Ivan's chest. His breathing was even, calm, peaceful, and for a brief, fragile moment, she felt a strange warmth in her chest, a whisper of hope that perhaps everything could be different.
She smiled softly, almost absentmindedly. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, taut yet gentle, a comforting solidity she had longed for. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, soft and fine, catching the light in a way that made him look almost ethereal. She could see the faint scar along his temple, a jagged mark, a reminder of the pain he had endured and survived. Her fingers traced it gently, almost reverently, as if touching it could somehow heal both him and herself.
