Morning came softly, without fanfare—a muted glow spilled behind the hospital blinds while the low hum of machines set the day's rhythm.
There was no sunbeam crashing in with drama, no birdsong heralding hope; only the measured pulse of the ward and filtered light that barely warmed the room.
Seraphine opened her eyes slowly. The first thought was pain—a sharp, dull ache pulsing from her lower back into her limbs, a constant reminder of her vulnerability.
Almost immediately, her thoughts turned to him. Callum, who sat vigilant beside her bed, his presence both a comfort and a quiet torment. His eyes were dark and heavy with sleepless worry, and despite the rumple in his re-donned jacket, his posture was impeccable—a silent discipline formed over endless hours of watchful care.
An untouched cup of coffee, now cold and uninviting, rested at his side. The silence between them wasn't hostile; rather, it was loaded with everything they couldn't say—a heavy, uninvited guest that hovered between them.
Every detail—the soft creak of the bed, the steady beeping beyond her window—seemed to echo the unspoken truth that duty and sorrow were inseparable.
She shifted, a subtle protest against the persistent discomfort in her abdomen, and Callum's eyes immediately caught the movement. Leaning forward, his voice broke the silence in a low, gravelly tone, as if drawn from countless quiet nights:
"Do you need something?"
Her whispered reply, "I…I need to use the bathroom," was fragile, as if spoken through a veil of reluctance and trust.
Though she tried to rise independently, her hands trembled against the mattress. Without another word, Callum moved to help her—his delicate, steady grasp attentive to every detail, carefully avoiding the IV line.
Her cheeks flushed with a mortified awareness, she mumbled, "You can wait outside." BUT, he didn't leave, he didn't turn his back or even close his eyes.
Sera took a deep breath and peed. Callum stared not at her but was still alert.
After she finished, Callum guided her back to the pillows with a touch that was as consistent as stone. Then he said, "The doctor said you can be discharged later."
Sera nodded.
Soon, a nurse appeared with a simple breakfast: plain congee, toast, and a soft-boiled egg, the comforting aroma offering a brief escape from the heaviness of the moment.
Seraphine picked at her food, each bite underlined by the growing tension. A tentative voice emerged, "You should eat something too."
When that gentle urging was met with silence, she added with a touch of bittersweet hope, "There's a canteen downstairs. I heard they have stronger coffee there."
Then, pausing, she let the weight of the unspoken fill the space.
"Callum…" Her voice wavered under the weight of old wounds and new uncertainties. "You should… go. Visit them. Dahlia and her mother."
A tightening of his jaw answered her silently. Seraphine couldn't tell if it was anger, hesitation, or a fleeting surge of something unnameable.
Then, Callum looked at her, he saw the weight of guilt she carries. Then with gentle voice, he replied, "The nurse said Auntie Celia is doing fine."
Without further words, Callum rose and walked to the window. With one deliberate motion, he pushed it open; the cold rush of air stirred the stagnant room, carrying with it hints of change and regret.
Then, without turning back, he murmured, "Once you let a dove fly…" A pause filled the space before he continued, "…you should never call her back home." His voice, though soft, carried a raw truth—a metaphor that struck deep within Seraphine. It was neither an accusation nor a lament but a quiet revelation that bridged their shared past with the present stillness.
He remained at the window, his shirt sleeves dancing in the cool breeze, and his cigarette's smoke curled slowly upward—like ashes from a fire that had once burned bright.
Below, untouched toast cooled on the bedside table as if time itself had paused. And for the first time since reentering his life, Seraphine wondered if he could ever see her—truly see her—beyond the reflection of what he had lost.
In that unguarded moment, the silence spoke of love, regret, and the bitter residue of choices that could never be undone.