Days passed, and her father came every morning.
At first, he sat quietly in the dim corner, watching her sleep, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His eyes held a storm of emotions—regret, love, helplessness—that he couldn't put into words.
One morning, soft light spilled through the hospital blinds as he reached out slowly, hesitating before taking her hand with surprising tenderness.
"Adeline," he whispered, voice thick with a mix of sorrow and resolve, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
She wanted to tell him it was alright to let go, to find peace—but the words caught, lodged in her throat.
Day by day, he lingered longer, bringing small comforts—a book, a cup of tea, a radio to break the silence and keep loneliness at bay.
Sometimes, his sorrow overwhelmed him, and she glimpsed tears he never let fall.
"I should've been here," he murmured one afternoon, voice barely audible, "I should've defended you."
Her fingers tightened around his, but words escaped her still.
Elias watched from a distance, his face unreadable, though the flicker in his eyes was unmistakable—guarded, yet quietly grateful.
Her father's presence wove a fragile warmth into the sterile room, a reminder that even fractured bonds might hold threads of hope.
Yet beneath it all lingered the unspoken weight—the persistent shadow of loss.
The hospital room was still, save for the distant beep of machines and the soft rustle of sheets. Elias stood by the window, arms crossed, watching her father with quiet vigilance as he tended to Adeline. He said nothing, but his eyes missed nothing.
Her father's hands trembled slightly as he gently brushed a stray curl from Adeline's forehead. His voice was low, rough with emotion.
"I should have protected you," he whispered, tears glistening unshed in his eyes. "All these years... I thought I was doing right by you, but I wasn't there when you needed me most."
Adeline's eyes fluttered open, meeting his. Her voice was fragile but steady.
"I know, Dad. You did what you could."
He shook his head, voice breaking. "No, I didn't. I should have been stronger. For you."
She gripped his hand firmly. "It's not your fault. You're here now."
Elias watched as her father's shoulders slumped—a man undone by regret, yet tethered to hope. There was no anger, only a desperate need to make amends.
After a long pause, her father whispered, "I don't know if I can fix what's broken... but I swear, I won't stop trying."
Adeline offered a weak smile—an uncertain light piercing the haze of pain.
Elias shifted slightly, stepping back to honor the fragile moment. He sensed the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air—words about protection, loss, and the slow, arduous work of healing.
His eyes met Nathan's across the room; a subtle nod passed between them. Both understood: some battles are fought not with noise or fury, but with presence and quiet strength.