The sun filtered in through the curtains, thin gold lines stretching across the pale floor. The soft beep of the monitor was steady—the only sign that time was still moving.
Billy stood beside the bed—not fully upright, but not slouched either.
One arm hung low, the IV tube gently tugging with each small movement. The other was lifted, fingers resting lightly over the bandage on the left side of his chest.
Where the skin still ached from fresh ink.
He wasn't looking at anything.
His gaze drifted—toward the closed window, toward the silence.
But his hand stayed there.
Pressed over the drawing he'd once made in that quiet room back in the city—the lake, the tree, Artur.
Beneath the cotton and gauze, it was there now.
Permanent.
He let out a quiet breath, one he hadn't realized he was holding. His eyes shimmered slightly, but no tears came. Not today.
Not yet.
His thumb moved slowly—not to remove anything, but almost to feel closer.
To remind himself it was real.
