The silence in Raphael's bedroom stretched heavy. The ticking clock on the wall marked time, but none of them moved. None of them slept.
Helena sat frozen by her son's side, her hand wrapped tightly around his limp, cold fingers. Across the room, Diana stood, her arms crossed, her back stiff as if bracing herself for another round of impossible news.
Eric lingered by the door, awkward and exhausted, carrying Imogen as though the girl were made of fragile glass. His steps had grown slower, heavier. His arms ached from holding her this long. He'd already tried laying her on the bed once, but the moment she'd touched the sheets, she had stirred again, clinging to him like a frightened kitten.
Now, she lay in his arms, breath soft, face damp with the tracks of earlier tears. Eric shifted his weight uncomfortably, waiting for Helena's next command.
Still, Helena didn't speak. She remained motionless beside Raphael, her gaze locked on her son's pale face.
