Room 214 glowed faintly in the early light.
Lucas lay motionless, wrapped in tubes and wires, skin too pale against sterile sheets. Machines monitored him with soft beeps, each one a fragile promise that his heart still worked, even if he didn't wake.
Ella sat curled in a chair by the window, legs tucked under her, reading aloud.
“…and though I am dust, I have known thunder," she whispered, finishing the poem.
No response. No twitch. No flicker of movement.
Still, she marked the page and set the book aside.
Day three.
She logged his vitals in the notebook Brandon had given her: temp stable, oxygen holding, slight twitch in left hand at 2:17 a.m.
She emailed her professors—delayed finals, resumed her ethics course online.
And she read.
Every sunrise, she opened another poem. Every
