The elevator dinged softly at the end of the hall.
Leon didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew that sound too well — the way grief arrived dressed in quiet footsteps and held breath. A second later, he heard Elise's voice, muffled and desperate, speaking before she even reached him.
"Where is she? Where's my daughter?"
Leon closed his eyes. He wanted to be strong for her. He wanted to say something measured — something that could hold her steady. But he turned and saw her face, and whatever words he'd planned scattered like leaves in wind.
Elise looked like she hadn't slept in days. Her eyes were red, mascara smudged at the corners. Jean stood behind her, shoulders stiff, jaw locked — holding in everything she let pour out.
"She's inside," Leon said softly, stepping aside.
Elise reached for the doorknob, but paused. Her fingers trembled.
"She's… alive, right?"
"Yes," he answered. "But she's not waking up. Not yet."
Jean moved forward then, placing a steady hand on Elise's back, guiding her gently as if she might shatter. Leon noticed the way Jean's eyes lingered on the IV bag through the small window in the door. The way his throat moved when he swallowed hard.
"She looks like she's sleeping," Jean said quietly.
"She's not," Leon replied. "She's fighting."
Elise opened the door and stepped in. The room didn't change — the machines still beeped, the air still hung heavy — but something in Leon shifted as they entered. As if watching them see her this way made it all the more real.
Elise moved straight to the bedside and collapsed into the chair. Her hand reached for Celeste's — no hesitation — and cradled it between both of hers. She kissed her knuckles, over and over again, whispering her name like a prayer.
Jean remained standing. His eyes scanned everything — the drip, the monitors, the bruises on her skin. Then he finally looked at Leon.
"She was on her way to you," he said. "Wasn't she?"
Leon nodded, shame heavy in his chest.
Elise looked up, eyes wide. "She wouldn't have left the beach house. She was happy there. Peaceful. You… you must've called her."
"I did," Leon admitted. "And I'd do it again."
"You brought her out into this mess," Jean snapped.
"And you brought her into a lie," Leon bit back. "So don't talk to me about guilt."
The silence that followed cracked like glass underfoot.
Elise flinched. Jean said nothing. The machines kept ticking — loyal, merciless, constant.
Leon took a breath, pulling himself back. He looked at the girl in the bed — at Ayla. Not Celeste. Not the girl they wanted her to be.