The doctor's words were not words. They were tiny, precise instruments, dissecting a reality I refused to accept.
"Mr. Roman… we've gone over your father's condition before, and most of the big issues are still the same," the doctor began, voice low but steady.
"He's still in a deep coma, and he still needs the machines. But there've been a few small changes we didn't expect."
My stomach tightened.
"The swelling in his brain has started to go down more than we hoped for at this stage. That's good. It takes some pressure off the areas that control breathing and reflexes."
A pause.
A quiet breath.
"Yesterday, his pupils reacted a little when we checked them. It wasn't strong, but it was there. And earlier today, he tried to take a breath on his own. Only once… but it means the brainstem isn't completely silent."
My jaw clenched hard.
"This doesn't mean he's waking up soon," the doctor said gently.
