The hospital smelled like rain-soaked metal and antiseptic—sharp, cold, unwelcoming. Brandon stood at the doorway of his father’s room, chest tight, hands stilling only when Julia touched his arm.
“You don’t have to go in yet,” she whispered.
He shook his head once. “If I wait, I won’t go at all.”
He stepped inside before courage cooled. Mr. Hughes lay slightly propped up, skin pale, lines around his eyes deeper than the last time Brandon saw him. A heart monitor clicked steadily—too steadily, almost mocking his fear.
Without turning, Mr. Hughes said, “You hover like your mother. Come in properly.”
Brandon exhaled. Tension snapped. He moved closer. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to hear the nurse muttering about your stubbornness,” his father replied, voice thinner than
