Where Time Has Stopped
1151 Words
"Fanel."
August’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the oppressive stillness of the hospital corridor.
Without turning around he remained staring through the screen at the girl who looked fragile.
"Yes, Master," Fanel replied, his own voice hushed.
"Gather every specialist in the country. No—the world. I don't care about the logistics, the cost, or whose schedule we have to wreck. She has to survive. Do you understand me? There is no alternative."
Fanel knew that look in August’s eyes. It was the frantic desperation of a man trying to outrun a shadow.
"At your command, sir." He turned, already punching numbers into his phone to make the calls that would move mountains.
August stood alone for a moment, his reflection overlaying Spring’s pale face. He looked down at his hands, still trembling, and forced them into his pockets.
"Can I visit her?"
The question was directed at the head nurse, a woman who had been watching him with a mixture of professional wariness and weary pity.
"The doctor gave permission," she said softly, adjusting her spectacles.
"But only one person at a time. And please, Mr. Harrington... watch what you say. Even in a deep coma, the mind is still a listener. She can hear everything. If you can, try to encourage her. She needs a reason to pull back from the edge."
Encourage her? The word felt unknown in August's mouth. What could he possibly say to the woman he had spent months dismantling?
He walked toward the door. Each step felt stiff, his legs moving slowly. The air in the room was different.
Click.
The door latched behind him, sealing him in.
The sound of the heart monitor suddenly became louder.
Tut... tut... tut. It was the only clock in a world where time had stopped.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. He had seen her every day for nearly three months, but he realized he had never actually seen her.
Without the glare of his own hatred in the way, he saw the hollows under her cheekbones, the terrifying fragility of her wrists, and the way her dark hair looked like spilled ink against the white pillow.
How come he had never noticed how pitiful she looked? She wasn't a monster. She was just... small.
He moved to the side of the bed. He sat down, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He wanted to speak.
He wanted to roar, to demand. But the words were caught in a bottleneck in his throat.
"Mmm..." he started, his voice cracking. He cleared it, swallowing hard.
"I... I'm sorry."
The words felt alien. Saying sorry to the woman he believed murdered the love of his life was the hardest thing he had ever done.
It felt like a betrayal of Winter, a crack in the foundation of his entire grief-stricken identity.
But as he looked at the girl hooked up to the machines, the apology felt less like a choice and more like a necessity for oxygen.
He looked at Spring’s face. No movement. Not a flicker of an eyelid.
"Are you really planning to stay there?" he muttered leaning in closer, his lips inches from her ear, his voice dropping into that low tone he used when he wanted to exert control.
"Listen to me, Spring. You better wake up. I mean it. If you think you can just check out and leave me with this... then I swear, I’ll send your Grandma to you right away. I’ll cut the funding. I'll send her to the neitherworld the second you stop breathing."
It was a cruel lie. He wouldn't do it. But it was the only language he knew how to speak to her.
He was trying to provoke her, to spark that tiny flame of defiance he had spent months trying to extinguish.
He pulled back, his eyes searching her face for a reaction. Was that...
A single, silver bead of moisture gathered at the corner of her closed eye. It rolled slowly down her temple, a silent testimony that she was, indeed, listening.
August felt a jolt of electricity hit his spine. He reached out, his hand trembling as he grabbed a tissue from the bedside table.
He gently dabbed the tear away, his touch surprisingly light.
"I know you hear me," he continued, his voice shaking.
"I do what I mean, Spring. You have to wake up. You don't get to leave yet."
"How can you treat a patient that way? She already has no will to live!"
The voice cut through his focus suddenly. August snapped his head around. He hadn’t even noticed the nurse entering.
She was a woman in her late fifties, her grey hair tucked neatly under a starch-white cap, her eyes blazing with a fire that didn't care about his power.
August stood up, his height meant to intimidate, his jaw tightening into that familiar, billionaire scowl.
"You might be a powerful man," the nurse said, her voice steady and loud, stepping right into his personal space to check the IV drip.
"But I don't care. You can take every step you want to make me resign. You're welcome to it. But in this room, she is the only person who matters. Not your ego, and certainly not your threats."
She let out a soft, heavy sigh as she adjusted the tubes, her expression softening as she looked down at Spring.
"Poor girl," she mumbled under her breath.
"Broken by the very hands that should have protected her."
August felt the air leave his lungs. The nurse's bluntness left him completely speechless. He actually looked at her—really looked at her.
He exhaled, a long, ragged sound of defeat. His shoulders slumped, the terrifying Young Master persona crumbling in the face of her honesty.
"I..." he stammered, his gaze dropping to his feet.
"I apologize for my earlier behavior. I... I didn't know how else to get her to listen."
The nurse paused, her hand lingering on Spring's arm. She looked at August, seeing the bandaged knuckles and the dark circles under his eyes for the first time.
"Fear is a terrible medicine, Mr. Harrington," she said, her voice losing its edge but keeping its weight.
"She’s spent her life afraid. If you want her back, you’re going to have to find a different voice."
August sat back down, the silence of the room returning, but the "Tut...tut...tut" of the monitor felt different now. It sounded like a question.
He looked at his hand, then at hers. He reached out, hesitating before finally resting his fingertips against the cold skin of her wrist.
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- Writer
