Lyra stood frozen beside Eleanor's hospital bed, the revelation hanging in the air. The door swung open before she could hear more, and Lachlan Moreau stepped in, his face ashen.
"Eleanor?" he whispered, rushing to his wife's side.
Eleanor's eyes fluttered closed again, her moment of consciousness gone. The monitors continued their steady beeping, the only sound in the suddenly silent room.
Lachlan took his wife's hand, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "The doctor said she might drift in and out." His voice was hollow, stripped of its usual authority. "They're not sure when she'll fully wake."
Lyra stepped back, giving him space. The guilt crashed over her in waves. If she hadn't confronted Eleanor with the photograph, none of this would have happened.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Lachlan didn't look up. "You should be."
Percival moved to Lyra's side, his hand at the small of her back. "We'll wait outside."
