The quiet beeping of machines was a kind of anchor in the room, soft and rhythmic, tethering Lily to the present moment. She sat by her father's bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital blanket. The morning sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting narrow lines of gold across the floor. It felt like the world outside was trying to intrude, but this room—this moment—was sealed in its own kind of time.
He stirred.
His eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep and medication, and blinked as they adjusted to the light. Lily leaned forward, instinct tightening in her chest.
"Dad?"
His gaze drifted before settling on her face. And then he smiled—slowly, faintly, but it was a smile all the same. "Hey, baby girl."
The sound of his voice, raspy and tired, tugged something deep inside her. She hadn't heard him say that in so long. She hadn't realized how much she'd needed to.
She took his hand gently. "You're awake."
