The hospital did not quiet after Ayla disappeared.
If anything, it grew louder.
Monitors continued their rhythmic beeping. Nurses moved in brisk, efficient patterns. Phones rang, doors opened and closed, and announcements echoed faintly over the intercom. Life carried on with cruel indifference, as if nothing significant had happened at all.
But for the people who knew her, the absence was deafening.
Silas sat upright on the edge of the hospital bed, one hand resting loosely against the thin blanket draped over his legs. He had barely slept. The faint ache in his head, the stiffness in his shoulder, the dull throb behind his eyes were all present, but none of them registered fully. Pain, when it came to him, had always been something he compartmentalized. It existed; therefore, it was managed. There was no point dwelling on it.
