The ICU was dim, lit mostly by machines and the faint wash of early morning outside the window. Scarlet lay still in the hospital bed, her body carefully arranged by necessity rather than comfort. Electrodes traced her scalp, thin wires feeding quiet data into glowing monitors. The ventilator breathed for her, steady and patient.
Ward stood beside the bed with his clipboard tucked against his side, untouched. He had stopped pretending he needed it hours ago.
A soft piano track played from his phone, barely audible. Simple. Repetitive. Something without words. He had chosen it on instinct, then stayed because instinct had not been wrong.
He watched the EEG lines more than her face.
A flicker appeared. Small, almost dismissible. Then another, sharper this time, coinciding with a lift in
