Night in the hospital had a different kind of silence.
Not empty. Not peaceful.
A silence made of small sounds—machines breathing, soft footsteps in the hall, distant voices kept low out of respect for other lives changing behind other doors.
Yura lay propped against pillows, hair damp and messy, skin warm with leftover heat. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else. Everything below her ribs was sore in a way that didn't have a name. Her arms were heavy. Her throat was dry. Her mind drifted in and out, like it couldn't decide whether to be awake or disappear.
On her chest, the baby slept.
Tiny. Wrinkled. Real.
Yura stared down until her eyes burned, not because she didn't believe it—because she did. Because belief had weight.
Joon-ho sat in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying without admitting it.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't even pretended to try.
