Upstairs, in Room 317, quiet despair had made itself at home.
Inside, Richard Blake sat hunched in a plastic chair, his broad shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the tiny hand he held in his own. His daughter, Emily, had been in a coma for twelve days. The doctors called it a waiting game. But each day felt more like a slow surrender.
Machines beeped in steady rhythm, keeping time for a life that felt further away with each passing hour.
Richard didn’t notice the elevator open. Didn’t hear the footsteps.
Not until a quiet voice said—
“I can help.”
Richard’s head snapped up.
A boy — maybe eleven — stood in the doorway. His clothes were worn, his hair a little messy, but his expression… his expression was so calm, it was almost unsettling.
“You’re lost, son,” Richard said, his voice rough from days of sleeplessness. “This place isn’t for you.”
