The ward remained hushed after the doctor left, as if the air itself had learned to hold its breath. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the walls, sterile and cold, a sharp contrast to the tangled emotions that refused to settle. Machines hummed softly, indifferent witnesses to the quiet fracture happening within the room.
Ayla had already turned away from Silas by the time the door closed. She curled into herself instinctively, knees drawn close to her chest, shoulders slightly hunched as though bracing against an invisible chill. Her bandaged wrist lay tucked near her collarbone, guarded, protected, as if even the air might hurt her if she exposed it. In sleep, she looked smaller than ever, fragile in a way that made it painful to watch. It was not the peaceful sleep of rest, but the defensive sleep of someone who no longer felt safe enough to stay awake.
