The hallway outside Edward's room was quiet when I arrived. The usual low hum of hospital sounds lingered—footsteps on polished linoleum, the soft beep of a monitor from somewhere down the hall—but it felt muted somehow, like the world had lowered its voice out of respect.
Mark was already there, sitting on the bench just outside the door. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced together, his head tipped forward in thought. He looked up when he heard me, but didn't move. Didn't tense.
"Doctor's in with him," he said softly.
I nodded and sat beside him.
There was space between us, but not much. Our shoulders nearly touched, a breath of distance away. He didn't shift. Didn't lean back or cross his arms like he used to. I didn't draw away either.
It wasn't peace, not exactly. But it wasn't discomfort anymore.
