Desperate to hold on to something real

The soft hum of the hospital lights filled the silence. It was the kind of silence that felt alive — heavy, fragile, almost sacred. Edward lingered at the doorway for a moment before finding his voice.

“Red…” he whispered.

The word trembled in the air. Abigail didn’t move. She was sitting upright on the bed, her body still, her eyes fixed on the window where a pale dawn was breaking. The world outside was waking, but the room felt like it existed somewhere else — in that quiet limbo between yesterday’s grief and tomorrow’s numbness.

Her eyes were swollen, their edges red from hours of crying. Even without tears, her face still carried the ache of them — the hollow exhaustion of someone who had lost something too big to name.

Edward stepped inside, his hand tightening around the small container he carried. The faint steam from the soup brushed his fingers. He had held it too tightly on the way up, as if warmth could anchor him to something real.

He didn’t know what to say. What could a