The first morning after tragedy felt wrong.Too quiet.Too ordinary.Sunlight slipped softly through the ICU blinds as if the world had not changed overnight.As if somewhere, people were still commuting to work, drinking coffee, laughing at stupid messages on their phones.Meanwhile—Our daughter was dead.And Elara had almost died with her.The disconnect felt violent.I barely slept.Maybe an hour at most.Every time my eyes closed, I saw the surgeon stepping out of the operating room.Your wife’s heart stopped during the procedure.Even now the memory made my chest tighten painfully.Elara still slept against me lightly.Her breathing steadier than yesterday.Thank God.One of my hands remained tangled carefully with hers beneath the blanket.At some point during the night, holding onto each other stopped feeling optional.A soft knock came at the ICU door.I looked up immediately.Nathan stepped inside quietly.Already dressed for work.Phone in hand.Expression cautious.He stop
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