We reach the hospital. It's raining lightly, just enough to make everything shimmer under the pale gray sky. I hear the soft squeak of our shoes on the lobby's clean tiles. The scent here is always the same—sanitized, cold, and vaguely lemony, like it's trying too hard to hide the things that have happened inside these walls.
Noah already finds a spot. He stands near the corner of the lobby, leaning against the armrest of one of those uncomfortable green couches, a paperback book in his hand. His coat is slung across his forearm. He looks up the moment we arrive, eyes scanning for me, then softening the instant he spots me.
"You can go inside, I'll wait here," he says. His voice is calm, like always. I find strange comfort in it.
He closes the book—not with a snap, just a quiet fold—and slips it under his arm. I glance at the title out of habit, not focus. Something about poetry. Of course.
