Richard sat down slowly on the couch beside Annabelle’s bed, still holding Alan in his lap. The boy nestled against him comfortably, small hands clutching his shirt, while his wide eyes stayed glued to his unconscious mother.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The steady beeping of the monitor filled the silence, punctuated only by Alan’s soft breaths. Richard glanced at Annabelle — her pale, fragile face — and guilt gnawed at his chest like a vice.
After a long pause, Alan finally whispered, his voice trembling, “Dad… why isn’t Mommy waking up? She’s been sleeping for so long.”
Richard’s throat tightened at the word “Dad,” but he steadied himself and stroked Alan’s soft hair. “She’s resting, champ,” he said quietly, forcing calm into his tone. “The doctors are helping her get better.
