The first light of dawn seeped into the dimly lit bedroom, casting a gentle glow over Vlad as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on his sleeping wife. Her profile was peaceful, silver hair catching the light as it fanned across the white sheets. Occasionally, her long lashes fluttered as if she were dreaming, and beneath her delicate nose, her lips—once pale and blue-tinged from illness—had regained a pink hue. Though she had recovered, her face and body were still gaunt from the sickness that had kept her from eating well. The sight pained his heart.
“So she doesn’t believe me,” he muttered.
