Part 22
The hospital at night had its own rhythm:
a steady heartbeat of machines, the sigh of ventilation, the low hum of lights that never quite slept.
Room 407 lay in silence, curtains drawn against the rain.
Adrian didn't stir. The rhythm of his heart monitor was the only sound.
Then the hallway lights flickered once.
Footsteps approached — soft, measured, almost rehearsed.
A nurse passed, humming under her breath. She didn't notice the figure a few steps behind her, dressed neatly in white.
Not a nurse.
Not anyone on staff.
Aura's badge looked real enough; the guard at the elevator hadn't even looked twice.
They moved quietly, a bouquet of sunflowers in one hand, a small white card in the other.
Inside the room, Aura stood for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of Adrian's chest.
The rain traced lines down the window, and in that reflected light, the expression was unreadable — a calm mask, neither love nor hatred.
She placed the sunflowers on the bedside table, replacing the old, wilted ones.
Then she leaned close, the voice low enough for only him to hear.
"They said you'd never wake up," Aura murmured.
"But I know better. You don't give up that easily, do you?"
Her gloved hand brushed the edge of the bedsheet — not a touch, only a shadow of one.
"You were kind to the world, and it broke you. So let me fix it."
Aura took out the card and slipped it beneath his hand.
Only two words were written on it in elegant black ink:
Justice blooms.
The monitor beeped once — just a tiny hitch in rhythm, as if his body heard something his mind couldn't.
Aura smiled faintly.
"When you open your eyes, the world will look different. I promise."
Then she turned and walked out, vanishing down the hall before the security camera flickered back on.
Only the sunflowers remained — the scent faint but sharp, like memory.
And under Adrian's still hand the card waited, soaking in the sterile glow of the room.