The lights were dimmed now. A faint glow from the hallway seeped in beneath the door, stretching thin lines across the floor tiles.
The monitor beside Billy's bed blinked slowly, rhythm steady and calm.
Camila sat curled in the visitor's chair, blanket over her shoulders, phone untouched in her lap.
The open book in her hands had long since become irrelevant—her eyes fixed only on him.
Billy lay still, his chest rising and falling with the measured assistance of the IV.
His face was pale but peaceful, the kind of calm that made her want to believe he was simply sleeping—dreaming, maybe, of something warm.
Camila leaned forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I hope you're dreaming something beautiful," she whispered.
She reached for his hand—fingers cold but steady—and held it gently.
"You're so stubborn, you know that? Even now, you're late to wake up."
A soft smile flickered at the corner of her lips. It didn't quite hold.
