The hospital doors parted without sound, but Damien's footsteps thundered against the sterile floor.
He didn't stop at the reception. Didn't ask for directions. He knew where she was. Knew before he even landed. Because the nurse had told him. Because the pit in his chest had told him louder.
Room 304.
He pushed the door open and the world froze.
There she was.
His Celeste.
Still. Silent. Small.
Damien didn't speak.
He just stood there — staring — as if the sight alone could crack him open. Machines beeped softly in the background, their rhythm far too calm for the chaos tearing through him. The IV glistened in her hand. Tubes trailed across her face, her skin pale and too quiet for someone who used to laugh with her whole chest.
He walked in slowly.
Elise looked up. Jean stood. But Damien said nothing to them.
He just whispered, "I shouldn't have let you go."
Then he sat beside her, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed like a man about to apologize to a ghost.
"She told me she needed to see him," he said aloud now, his voice hoarse. "That Leon claimed he knew who she was."
He exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on her motionless face. "She was scared. But she was brave. And I—" his voice broke, "I let her use my jet. I told her it was okay. That I'd be waiting when she came back."
Jean stepped forward. "You didn't know what would happen."
Damien didn't look at him. "That doesn't matter. She trusted me. She flew across countries to get answers, and now she's lying here like this."
Elise reached out, but he pulled his hand away.
"You think Leon's the problem?" he said bitterly. "No. I'm the problem. I gave her permission."
"She wanted the truth," Jean said gently.
Damien's eyes finally lifted. Sharp. Glassy.
"She deserved the truth without ending up in a coma."
Silence filled the room like water rising in a sinking ship.
Then Damien's voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "She was laughing just two days ago. Dancing barefoot on the balcony. Saying she finally felt like herself, even if she didn't know what that meant."
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"And now look at her," he said. "Still. Cold. Like the world punished her for wanting to remember."
A tremble moved through his jaw, but he held it back.
"Wake up, Celeste ," he whispered. "You owe no one your past. But I think you still want it."
He didn't cry. Not in front of them.
But he broke — in quiet ways.