The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and roses.
Leo's shoes echoed softly against the hospital floor as he carried a small basket of fruit and flowers — simple, but thoughtful.
He paused at the door with a silver nameplate:
"Mrs. Luna Hale."
He took a breath before entering.
Inside, Lana's mother lay resting — fragile, pale, but with the same warm eyes that always reminded him of her daughter.
> "You again?" she said with a faint smile as he walked in.
"You should really stop visiting so much, Leo. I'm starting to think you like me more than my daughter."
Leo chuckled, setting the flowers beside her bed.
> "You're easier to talk to than Lana."
> "That's because I don't glare at you when you tease," she said softly.
Her voice trembled, but her humor remained.
Leo sat down beside her, his gaze dropping for a moment.
> "She's been distant lately."
Mrs. Hale nodded knowingly.
> "That girl hides her heart too well. Ever since her father passed… she learned to protect herself before anyone else could."
> "I know," Leo whispered. "That's what I love and hate about her. She never lets me in."
Mrs. Hale smiled, eyes soft.
> "Then be patient with her, Leo. The ones who build walls aren't asking for you to break them — they're asking you to stay long enough to be let in."
Leo's throat tightened.
> "You talk like she still loves me."
> "She does. She just doesn't know how to forgive yet."
Silence fell between them — a gentle, comforting silence.
When the nurse walked in to check the monitors, Mrs. Hale glanced at Leo.
> "Don't tell her about these visits. You know how she is — stubborn as a cat."
Leo smiled faintly.
> "I wasn't planning to."
He stood up, adjusting his coat, the weight of secrecy sitting heavy on his shoulders.
As he left the room, he murmured to himself,
> "If she ever finds out… I just hope she understands why."