It had been four weeks since that night in the hospital, and Craig still saw the look on her face. He still remembered her voice. Not the part where she cried, not her apology, but the scary silence that stayed after the doctor said the words.
We lost her.
He remembered how Merlina had refused to move, eyes fixed on the ICU door, the doctor tried to guide her, but she screamed, over and over, that she needed to see, had to see. She couldn't believe it.
Not yet.
She'd been through this before, a grief that had once been a lie. So she didn't cry immediately. She demanded to see the body. And when they finally let her in, she touched the cold, still hand as if testing reality itself. Gone.
Craig had never felt so powerless.
He tried everything. Holding her, calling her name, reaching for her hand, staying behind when the others left, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Wouldn't speak. Grief had built a wall between them, unyielding in that moment.
