The morning sunlight filtered through the hospital windows, diffused and pale against the off-white curtains. The world beyond the glass was starting its day—cars passing, voices echoing faintly in the hallway—but inside Room 607, time moved slower. Gentler.
Ella sat propped up in bed, her hair brushed and tucked behind her ears, though a stubborn curl kept falling against her cheek. The bandage at her temple had been changed. Her eyes, while tired, held more color today. Less dazed. Less fragile. But when Nicholas entered the room again, carrying a steaming cup of the chamomile tea she'd managed to sip the night before, her expression softened further.
He paused at the door.
The tray in his hands wasn't just tea. He'd coaxed the kitchen staff into preparing her a tiny plate of things she liked—cut fruit, soft toast, two slices of mild cheese. Comfort food. Nothing fancy. Just thoughtful.
"You didn't have to," Ella murmured, watching him as he approached.
