The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the small hospital room, blending with the distant beeping of machines that echoed in the quiet space like heartbeat reminders of life. I sat in a chair beside my father, my fingers tightly intertwined, the contrast of his large, calloused hand dwarfed by my own. He looked so small, overshadowed by the hospital bed, buried under sheets that faintly smelled of bleach and sorrow. Yet, despite the bruises and stitches that scarred his rugged face, a flicker of warmth shone in his eyes—an ember of recognition that brought comfort to the cold walls surrounding us.
"Winter," he said, his voice hoarse but steady, able to cut through my spiraling thoughts. "I'm so glad you're safe." Each word was like a balm for my frayed nerves, soothing the worried tumult
