The private hospital room was too quiet, the kind of quiet that sat heavily on your chest. Machines beeped in the background, steady but cold, like they were reminding Eliana she was still here. She sat propped up against the pillows, eyes fixed on the pale curtains swaying slightly under the hum of the air conditioning. The place smelled sharp with antiseptic, softened only by the faint trace of roses from the diffuser Rafael had insisted on bringing in—his way of trying to make this place less unbearable.
Rafael sat in his wheelchair right beside her, leaning forward like he'd been there for hours without moving. His expensive suit had long since lost its sharpness, creased from waiting, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes weren't fixed directly on Eliana—still playing into the illusion of blindness—but every muscle in his body was tuned to her, listening to her breaths, watching for the tiniest shift in her hands or shoulders.
