The world comes back slowly. First, the sound — soft hums, faint beeps, someone whispering her name.
Then, the light — muted and golden, filtered through the blinds like melted honey.

My chest hurts. Not the sharp kind, not yet — just a deep ache, heavy and familiar, like the ghost of a storm still rumbling in my ribs.

I blink a few times before the shapes around me start to make sense. I'm in my bed, tucked tight in blankets that smell like detergent and antiseptic and comfort.

And then I see her.

Charlotte. She's sitting right beside my bed in her wheelchair, her head leaning on her hand, eyes rimmed red but smiling when she notices me stir.

"Hey, baby bird," she says softly. "About time you woke up."

Her voice wobbles halfway through, but she keeps smiling anyway.

I try to smile back, but it comes out as more of a grimace. "Did I...?" My throat is dry, my voice barely a whisper. "Did I scare you?"

She snorts, even as tears slip down her cheeks. "Please. You terrify everyone. It's part of your charm."

I manage a small laugh — the weak, breathy kind that hurts a little but still feels good.

Then my gaze shifts across the room. Calian's in his bed, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil moving slowly — like he's trying to draw without making any noise. His hair's a little messy, his shoulders hunched in that quiet, thoughtful way he has when the world feels too loud.

He doesn't look up, but I can tell he knows I'm awake.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the silence sit between us. There's something different about it now — softer, heavier, meaningful.

Charlotte wipes her eyes and exhales shakily. "Yara said your heart went out of rhythm again. She and the team fixed it fast, but... you scared the hell out of us, Eli."

"Sorry," I whisper.

"Don't you dare apologize," she says, voice firm. "You just... rest, okay?"

I nod weakly, staring up at the ceiling. "I was dreaming," I mumble after a pause. "It felt like water. Like I was sinking and floating all at once."

Charlotte brushes a piece of hair from my forehead, her touch gentle. "Well, you're floating now, not sinking. Stay that way."

I smile faintly, eyes fluttering closed again for a second. When I open them, Calian's looking at me.

Just looking — quietly, carefully — his pencil frozen above the page.

He doesn't say anything. He never does, not right away. But his gaze is steady, and in it, I can see everything he won't say out loud. Fear. Relief. A tenderness so raw it almost hurts.

"What are you drawing?" I whisper.

He blinks, glances at his page, then back at me. "Nothing important."

Charlotte smirks. "Translation: it's about you."

He gives her a look, quiet but unmistakably annoyed, and she grins. "What? I'm right."

I let out a weak laugh, the sound thin but real. "You two are ganging up on me."

"Only because we love you," Charlotte says softly.

Calian doesn't respond to that — not with words. He just sets his sketchbook aside, swings his legs off the bed, and sits there, elbows on his knees, looking at me.

And that's enough. His silence says more than anything else could. He doesn't know how to comfort people with touch or grand gestures. He comforts with presence. With stillness. With the quiet promise that he's not going anywhere.

The machines hum softly. Charlotte dozes off in her chair. Calian goes back to his sketching eventually — slow, careful strokes that fill the silence like heartbeat echoes.

And as I lie there, breathing in the faint scent of graphite and lavender lotion, I realize something:
Maybe love isn't always loud.
Maybe sometimes, it's just someone staying.

🫀🫁

Charlotte's asleep beside my bed, her head tilted back against her wheelchair, a half-empty cup of pudding balanced precariously in her lap.
The soft hum of machines fills the room like a lullaby.

For a while, I just lie there, breathing. My chest still aches, but the air feels easier now. Then I hear it — the scratch of pencil against paper.

Calian.

He's sitting cross-legged in his bed, sketchbook open, completely absorbed. Something about it feels comforting — that quiet rhythm of his world continuing, like he's sketching the space between heartbeats.

I shift, testing how much strength I've got. My body protests a little, but not enough to stop me.

"Hey," I whisper, my voice small but mischievous.

He looks up, cautious. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I am," I say, grinning weakly. "This is horizontal resting with bonus conversation."

He shakes his head but I swear I see it — the tiniest smile. Barely there, but real.

And that's all the encouragement I need.

"So," I start, stretching the word like taffy. "What are you drawing now? Is it me? Be honest. It's totally me."

He exhales through his nose, glancing back at the page. "It's not."

"Liar."

"I don't lie."

"Oh, so it is me," I say, pretending to gasp dramatically. "What am I doing in it? Sleeping? Drooling? Looking breathtaking as usual?"

"You're exhausting."

"And yet, you still keep talking to me," I sing softly. "Admit it, Sketch. You'd miss me if I stopped yapping."

He doesn't answer. But I catch it this time — the faint curl of a smile that tugs at his lips before he hides it again behind his sketchbook.

A warmth spreads through my chest, the good kind this time. I missed this. I missed me.

When Charlotte's soft snoring fills the silence, I slowly swing my legs over the side of my bed.
Calian immediately looks up. "What are you doing?"

"Investigating," I whisper. "I wanna see the swans."

He pulls the sketchbook closer to his chest. "No."

"No?" I blink. "You're saying no? To me?"

"It's not finished."

"That's fine! I love works in progress. I am a work in progress."

"Eliora."

"Calian."

We stare at each other — me grinning, him stoic — until I take one slow, wobbly step toward his bed.
He straightens, instantly alert.

"Eli," he says carefully, "you're supposed to stay in bed."

"Technically," I whisper, "I'm still in the room."

"Eliora—"

But it's too late. I'm already leaning toward him, fingers outstretched, trying to peek over his sketchbook. "Let me seeeee!" I laugh softly.

"No."

"Yes!"

He shifts the sketchbook away, and we start this ridiculous slow-motion tug-of-war — me trying to grab the edge, him dodging, both of us whisper-fighting like toddlers in a library.

"Firefly, stop—"

"Sketch, just a peek!"

"You'll smudge it—"

"I'll breathe carefully—"

"Eliora—"

"Caliaaaaan—"

The door bursts open.

"What on earth is going on in here?!"

We both freeze.

Yara stands in the doorway, eyes wide, clipboard in hand, looking like she's about to explode.

"Eliora Brown!" she shrieks. "You were supposed to be resting!"

I immediately plaster on my sweetest, most innocent smile. "I am!"

"You are standing up and arguing over a sketchbook!"

"It's part of my rehabilitation program," I say earnestly. "Building stamina and character."

"Building a heart attack is what you're doing!"

I bite back a laugh. "I mean technically that already happened."

Yara presses her hand to her forehead like she's seconds away from calling for sedation. "Eliora—"

"I was just stretching!" I protest. "My legs were stiff! Right, Sketch?"

Calian blinks, looking utterly unhelpful. "Technically, yes."

Yara glares at him. "Do not encourage her."

"I didn't," he says softly. "She doesn't need encouragement."

Charlotte snorts awake in her chair. "What'd I miss?"

"Chaos," Yara mutters. "Again."

I grin. "But the good kind."

Yara sighs — that long, defeated sigh of someone who loves you too much to stay mad. Finally, she walks over, tucks the blanket back around me, and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead.

"Next time," she says softly, "warn me before you decide to give me a heart attack, okay?"

I grin up at her. "No promises."

She shakes her head but smiles anyway, muttering, "God help me, I missed your noise."

Calian glances down at his sketchbook, hiding that same small smile again, and I see it this time — the relief flickering in his eyes, quiet but unmistakable.

The room hums with laughter and life again.And for the first time since my heart gave out, it feels like mine still belongs to the world.