The infirmary was draped in the golden, dying light of the afternoon, the shadows of the pine trees stretching like long, thin fingers across the linoleum floor. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the heating system and the soft, labored breathing of the boy in the bed.
The door creaked open, and Holino stepped in. Gone was the loud, vibrant prince of the morning; in his place was a man who looked uncharacteristically subdued, his footsteps light as if he were afraid the mere vibration of his walking would shatter the fragile figure on the bed.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of Luca. The bandages were everywhere—a stark, blinding white against Luca's pale, bruised skin. He looked less like a roommate and more like a ghost that had been roughly tethered back to the physical world.
