The next morning, the first rays of sun angled through the tall windows of the master bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. Delia was already awake. She hadn't slept. She sat in a plush armchair pulled right up beside the large bed, a silent, unmoving guardian. She held Eric's hand in both of hers, a fragile link to the man who lay so still, lost in a world she couldn't reach.
She gently caressed the back of his hand with her thumb, feeling the texture of his skin, memorizing it. She brought his hand to her lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to his knuckles, then rested it against her cheek. His hand felt warm. That simple, biological fact was a bonfire in the cold darkness of her fear. Warmth meant life. It was a sign that he was still in there, that his body was still fighting. The tiny spark of hope she had been nursing all night intensified.
