The door to the recovery room clicked softly behind him. For a moment Adam just stood there, his hand still on the handle, staring at the shape of her in the bed. The monitors pulsed quietly, their green lines rising and falling like distant hills. The smell of antiseptic and warm fabric hung in the air.
Sofia looked impossibly small against the expanse of white sheets, her skin pale, lashes dark against her cheeks. The oxygen tube curved along her nose; the IV drip whispered with each slow drop. She was alive. She was here. And yet, to Adam's eyes, she looked like a fragile version of the woman who had stood on that cliff, defiant and bright even in terror.
He moved forward slowly, as though afraid the floor might crack under his feet. Each step felt like walking into a church, the weight of what he'd lost pressing against what he still had. His fingers hovered just above the rail of the bed, trembling.
