Isabella rested her head carefully against the edge of the hospital bed, right beside where her father lay.
Peter's chest rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
Slow. Uneven. Mechanical in a way that didn't feel human anymore.
She counted the seconds between each breath. She didn't mean to. It just happened. One… two… three… pause. Then the next inhale.
Her red hair spilled across the white sheets, bright against the sterile fabric. She watched his lungs move like if she looked away, even for a second, his body might forget how to keep going.
It had been hours.
She hadn't moved.
The scar on his throat had almost faded. A thin line, pink and tight, the skin still slightly swollen. It looked small now. Manageable. Like something that could be explained away.
But that wasn't why he was here.
That wasn't what left him pale and barely conscious, hooked to machines that hummed like background noise in a bad dream.
The room smelled like disinfectant.
And iron.
