He’d walked these hospital stairs so many times, he could do it blindfolded. And yet, every step still brought that same grim weight—an invisible pressure that settled deep in his chest.
Cyril avoided elevators. Not out of claustrophobia, but because elevators meant interaction. Casual smiles, awkward small talk, well-meaning questions about his wife. He couldn’t stomach the pity. The hallway was quieter, more bearable. Just his echoing footsteps, the scent of antiseptic, and the bouquet of white roses in his hand—pale and scentless, like the woman he was going to see.
Larissa had been unconscious for a month. The doctors used words like “stable” and “responsive to treatment,” but Cyril didn’t see progress. He saw expenses. Mounting bills. Procedures that didn’t seem to change anything except the size of his bank account. And still, everyone around him parroted optimism like it was oxygen.
To them, he was the grieving husband—always present, always composed, always with a fresh bouquet in hand. In truth, the flowers were for the performance. They were his admission ticket into the role he was pretending to play.
He slipped into the room and let the door close quietly behind him. Machines hummed. Tubes snaked from Larissa’s frail body. Her auburn hair had dulled, her skin nearly translucent against the sheets. She looked like a ghost.
He leaned in. For once, there was no one to overhear. Or so he thought.
When Cyril finally left, Mirabel crawled out and slipped into the hallway. Her hands shook. What should she do? Tell someone? What if no one believed her?
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