The hospital room was dim, the blinds half-drawn against the pale morning light. Machines hummed softly, their steady rhythm a fragile reassurance that life—however battered—was still present.
Vinny sat on the edge of the couch this time, not the bed. His knees were drawn up, arms wrapped around them, gaze unfocused. He hadn't cried in a while, which worried Matthew more than any tears ever could.
Matthew stood by the window for a moment, watching the city breathe below them. Cars moved. People lived. The world kept going, oblivious to the way Vinny's universe had cracked open again.
He turned back slowly.
Vinny looked smaller like this—not fragile, not weak, but compressed, like a flame forced into a narrow space. Tension coiled in every line of his body. His jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff, eyes dark and distant.
Matthew crossed the room without a word.
