Lyra sat in the rigid hospital chair, her back straight despite hours of waiting. The antiseptic smell had long since faded from her awareness, replaced by the heavy scent of grief that seemed to permeate the hallway outside Mrs. Moreau's room. She rubbed her tired eyes, glancing at the clock on the wall—3:17 AM.
From down the corridor, she caught Uncle Moreau studying her intently. His gaze wasn't hostile like Orla's or calculating like Percival's. It was curious, almost puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a particularly difficult equation.
Lyra shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Since their encounter hours ago, he'd maintained a strange vigil at the other end of the hallway, occasionally speaking in hushed tones with Percival but mostly observing the comings and goings with hawkish intensity.
"Remarkable," she heard him mutter as a nurse passed between them, temporarily breaking his stare. "The resemblance is uncanny."
