Inside, the hospital room felt like a quiet, mechanical purgatory—soft lights humming overhead, machines chirping and beeping like they were having a private conversation no one else was invited to. Frank Bennett lay still in the narrow bed, his once-broad shoulders diminished beneath stiff white sheets, the coma clinging to him like an unwanted guest who'd overstayed its welcome. Tubes traced his arms and face, monitors blinking steadily, stubbornly reminding the world that he was still here… just not present.
Eliana stopped just inside the doorway. Her breath caught in her throat before she could stop it.
This was her father—the man who'd lifted her onto his shoulders at carnivals, who'd burned toast but sworn it was "crispy on purpose," who'd raised her alone after her mother walked away like love was optional. Now his face was pale, etched with lines of exhaustion that hadn't been there before. He looked fragile. Breakable. And that nearly undid her.
