The soft beeping of monitors echoed down the quiet hallway as Mark approached Room 314. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his lungs, sharp and clinical, a stark contrast to the earthy smell of the forest that still clung to his skin. His steps slowed as he reached the door, heart pounding heavier than any wound he carried.
He hesitated just outside the room.
There was a moment—one agonizing breath—where he couldn’t move. His fingers gripped the doorframe. He was afraid of what he’d see.
But then he stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the monitoring machines and a single light in the corner. It cast a gentle hue over the hospital bed where Ronnie lay motionless, her platinum blonde hair fanned across the pillow like silk.
Mark’s heart twisted violently.
