The quiet of morning was cruel.
Not peaceful. Not kind. Just quiet.
The kind of quiet that gnawed at your bones.
The kind that made your thoughts too loud, too sharp, too real.
I sat by my father’s bedside, the back of my hand pressed to his. His skin was warm. Too warm. But the healers said that was expected for now. Stabilizing. Resting.
I hated how calm they sounded when they said it.
They said the worst had passed.
They didn’t say how much worse was still coming.
His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythms, and each one felt borrowed. Like he was hanging on by threads no one could see, and I was just sitting here, pretending that my presence could stitch him back together.
The monitors beeped softly behind us.
The herbal concoction filled the room with a bitter scent that clun
