Camila sat still for a long while, fingers curled gently around Billy's. But her own hand had gone cold.
She stood again.
Her steps were quiet, careful — like noise might somehow disturb the delicate space holding her brother together.
She walked to the window and cracked the blinds just a bit more. Outside, the day looked normal — cars moving, people living, the world continuing.
And it hurt.
Camila leaned her forehead lightly against the glass, exhaling a thin cloud against it. Her arms folded across her chest.
"Four days," she murmured to herself. "You never even used to sleep past seven."
She closed her eyes. The sharp sting behind her lids had been building all morning. She didn't cry. Not yet.
A nurse passed by in the hallway. Camila caught her reflection in the window — pale, tired eyes, hair tied in a rushed twist, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder.
"You look like Mom," she muttered with a faint, tired smile.
