There was a particular hour in the hospital when everything softened.
It lived somewhere between night and morning, when alarms were fewer, footsteps lighter, voices pitched lower out of respect for sleep that never quite arrived. The lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional. Like the building itself was trying not to intrude.
Elias was awake for most of it.
Awake in the way that mattered now. Aware without agency. Present without permission.
His thoughts came slowly, like they were moving through syrup. Sweet but sticky, exerting more effort than normal. He no longer tried to command his body. That struggle had exhausted itself. Now he focused on what remained available to him. Sound. Rhythm. Memory.
Jonah's breathing from the chair beside the bed.
The machine's steady pulse.
The distant echo of a cart rolling over uneven tiles.
Staying, Elias realized, was becoming its own kind of effort.
Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just constant.
The door opened softly.
A nurse stepped in, checked the monitors, adjusted a line. She spoke quietly into the room, even though she had no reason to believe Elias could hear her.
"You're doing okay," she said. "Still with us."
The phrase lingered after she left.
Still with us.
Elias wondered how long that would remain true. Not in the biological sense. In the other one. The one that mattered more to him now.
Jonah stirred. Sat up straighter.
"They're bringing someone else in," he murmured. "ICU's filling up."
He leaned forward. "You always hated crowded places."
Elias wanted to tell him that this didn't count. That being surrounded by people wasn't the same as being with them.
But his body stayed quiet.
Jonah rubbed his face. "I talked to your sister."
That landed.
A familiar ache, dull and immediate.
"She's on the next flight," Jonah continued. "She's angry. Which means she's scared. Which means… yeah."
Jonah swallowed. "I didn't tell her everything. Just that you're not… communicative right now."
Elias focused on the word. Communicative. Like he was choosing silence instead of being trapped inside it.
"That woman you never named?" Jonah added. "I didn't tell her either."
A pause.
"I don't know if that's loyalty or cowardice anymore."
Jonah stood, pacing the small room. "They want to start a new protocol tomorrow. Something experimental-adjacent. They're careful about how they phrase it."
Elias listened.
"They say it might stabilize things," Jonah said. "Might slow the progression. Might give you more time."
More time.
The phrase felt abstract now. Time no longer belonged to calendars or plans. It lived in moments. In voices passing by. In the space between footsteps.
"And they say," Jonah continued quietly, "that there's a chance it could reduce awareness."
Elias' attention sharpened.
Jonah stopped pacing. "Meaning… you might not hear anymore. Or understand. Or recognize."
The room felt suddenly heavier.
Jonah's voice cracked. "They're asking me what you'd want."
If Elias could have answered, he would have said this:
I want to hear her voice, even if I can't speak back.I want to know she's nearby, even if she never knows it's me.I want to stay where love still registers, even if it hurts.
Instead, his finger twitched.
Just barely.
Jonah saw it.
"Okay," Jonah whispered. "Okay. I get it."
He sat back down, resolute. "We'll wait."
The door opened again.
This time, Elias felt it before he heard it.
Mara's presence shifted the air in a way he couldn't explain. It wasn't mystical. It wasn't fate announcing itself. It was something simpler. Familiar cadence. A weight he recognized.
She stood just outside the room, speaking to another nurse.
"His chart is strange," Mara said quietly. "The responses don't match the damage."
"That's ICU for you," the nurse replied. "Bodies don't read textbooks."
Mara hummed in agreement. "Still. It feels like he's… listening."
Elias focused with everything he had.
She stepped closer to the glass, tablet in hand. Read. Paused.
For a moment, Elias allowed himself a dangerous thought.
What if she looked in?What if she noticed the shape of his brow?The way his breathing changed when she was near?
But Mara didn't look at his face.
She never did.
She studied the numbers. The vitals. The information that kept her safe from the person underneath.
"That mask makes him look older," she said softly. "And younger at the same time."
Jonah glanced up, startled.
Mara noticed him then. Just briefly. A flicker of recognition that didn't quite settle.
She smiled politely. "Family?"
Jonah hesitated. "Something like that."
She nodded, accepting the ambiguity easily. "I hope he's not alone."
Jonah's throat tightened. "He's not."
Mara held his gaze for a second longer, as if something in his tone registered. Then she stepped back, duty reclaiming her.
"I should get back," she said. "Call if anything changes."
As she walked away, Elias felt it.
The shift.
Not panic. Not despair.
A quiet urgency.
His breathing changed. Subtly. Enough that the monitor adjusted its rhythm.
Jonah leaned forward. "Hey. Hey. She's still here. You're okay."
Elias concentrated.
Not on movement.
On staying.
The doctors came later. Spoke in careful terms. Took notes. Made plans.
Elias drifted in and out, but he didn't sink as far this time.
Each time Mara passed, something in him surfaced.
Not enough to be seen.
Enough to endure.
That night, Jonah slept with his head against the bedrail, one hand still resting near Elias' wrist.
Mara finished her shift exhausted, emotionally raw without knowing why. As she changed out of her scrubs, she checked her phone again.
Still one tick.
She stared at the screen longer than she meant to.
"Timing," she muttered under her breath. "Always impeccable."
She didn't know that two floors above her, the man she was waiting for was listening to the echo of her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Didn't know that staying conscious was beginning to cost him something.
Didn't know that soon, the choice would no longer be his.
And Elias, suspended between hearing and losing, understood something new:
Love wasn't just about being seen.
Sometimes, it was about enduring invisibility… just a little longer.