Julia hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, yet exhaustion didn’t hit her—fear did. Fear of what Arthur’s words meant. Fear of what her mother believed. Fear of what Brandon must be thinking. The hospital corridor felt too bright, too still, as if holding its breath along with her.
She sat beside her mother’s bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin blanket. Mrs. Bailey had finally drifted into sleep after hours of tension and grief. Julia brushed a damp strand of hair from her own cheek, her hands still cold from the night before.
A quiet knock interrupted her thoughts.
Arthur stood in the doorway, arm in a sling, face pale but awake. “Can I come in?” he asked softly.
She nodded, though confusion tugged at her. “You should be resting.”
“So should you.”
