The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm cotton, but beneath the clean brightness of its lights floated something heavier — a silence thick with memories Lia had tried to bury for five years.
Her hands trembled as she stood outside the private waiting room the nurse had directed her to. She could hear voices inside. Men shifting. A chair is sliding. Footsteps pacing — slow, heavy, controlled. The kind of footsteps she had never forgotten.
Her lungs tightened.
Damien.
She hadn’t said his name out loud in years, but now it pulsed inside her chest like a second heartbeat. She held the file of her son’s medical forms against her chest, as if it could shield her.
Then the door opened.
Only halfway.
Just enough for his voice to slip out.
“Let her in.”
Two simple word
