"Leo… she's responding to the medication better than we expected."
"Mira…?"
Finn nodded. "She's been shifted to a room. She'll get better, trust me."
"Can I see her?" His voice trembled, his eyes already filling with tears but relief made him smile.
"Yes," Finn said gently. "But Leo… she hasn't regained consciousness yet. It'll take time. You can see her—but don't disturb her."
Leon pulled Finn into a tight embrace, then stepped back quickly, wiping his tears as if he didn't want anyone to see them.
After sanitizing, he walked in.
The room was large. White. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Mira lay in the center of it, fragile against the sheets, machines surrounding her. The steady beeping filled the silence—cold, mechanical… constant.
Leon walked slowly toward her and sat beside the bed.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Just looked at her with red eyes.
"Mira…" His voice came out low, almost breaking. "What should I do…"
His fingers curled slightly as he leaned closer.
"Were you this unhappy… with us?" His voice cracked. "Even Mumu's smile… wasn't enough to keep you here?"
Tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I saw you… after he was born. You were happy… you were smiling…" He shook his head faintly, lost. "So what happened…dear ?"
His voice dropped into a whisper.
"Wake up… and tell me."
His breathing grew uneven.
"Just tell me what you want… I'll give it to you. Anything. Anyone." His words came faster now, desperate. "If something—or someone—hurt you… just say their name."
A dangerous stillness settled in his tone.
"I'm your husband, Mira." His hand tightened slightly around the bedsheet. "I'll fix it. I'll fix everything."
His eyes darkened, his voice lowering further.
"I can be your shield… your home…"
A pause.
"Just wake up."
His gaze hardened with something deeper—something almost frightening beneath the grief.
"Tell me who did this to you… and I'll bring them to you."
A breath.
"Alive… or dead."
Silence.
Only the machine answered.
Leon exhaled slowly, the intensity draining just enough for exhaustion to take over.
He wiped his tears, then gently reached for her hand—careful, and held her little finger between his.
Resting his forehead against the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes.
"I'll wait…"
And he did.
Day after day.
The routine never changed.
In the mornings, he brought fresh flowers from her garden—arranging them quietly beside her, just the way she liked.
In the evenings, he came back with Mumu.
The child stayed close to him, small and silent, his eyes often drifting toward his mother's still form.
They stayed.
All three of them.
Together.
Ironically—
A complete family, gathered in a room where nothing moved.
It had been twenty-nine days.
Leon walked in, a fresh bunch of red roses in his hand.
Just like every day.
He placed them beside her, adjusting them carefully—as if she might notice.
"Mira…" His voice was softer now, "It's almost a month…"
He sat beside her and gently took her hand into his.
He lowered his head and pressed a lingering kiss against her fingers.
And then—
Something brushed against his lips.
A flicker.