The hospital was cloaked in a kind of silence that wasn't peace, but exhaustion. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, the kind that stung the nose. Fluorescent lights hummed above, pale and unforgiving, making the polished floors gleam like glass. A nurse passed with quick, clipped steps, her heels muted against the tiles. A patient in loose clothing shuffled slowly down the corridor, dragging slippers across the floor.
But the scene that drew every passing glance was the bench tucked near the waiting area—a cushioned, almost luxurious thing, too fine for its surroundings, like it had been donated by someone wealthy. Three figures sat on it, separated by inches that felt like miles.
