Morning arrived without ceremony.
A pale wash of light seeped through the hospital blinds while the low hum of machinery stitched together the rhythm of the ward. No dramatic sunrise broke across the room, no birdsong announced hope. There is only the sterile pulse of monitors and the thin gray light that failed to warm the air.
Seraphine opened her eyes slowly.
Pain greeted her first.
It unfurled from her lower back in slow, merciless waves, threading through her limbs until even breathing felt heavy. A quiet 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 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 rested near his hand, cold enough now to leave a bitter smell in the air.
The soft creak of sheets, the distant beeping from another room, the muted footsteps beyond the hallway sharpen the chasm between them.
She shifted slightly, wincing at the pull in her abdomen.
Callum noticed immediately.
He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. "Do you need something?" His voice came out rough, worn thin by sleepless hours.
"I…" Her throat tightened. "I need to use the bathroom."
She tried to push herself upright, but her arms trembled beneath her weight.
Before she could struggle further, Callum stood and moved to her side. His hands were steady as he helped her sit up, careful of the IV line, CAREFUL OF HER.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
"You can wait outside," she murmured.
But he didn't move.
He didn't turn away, didn't pretend not to notice her embarrassment. He simply stayed there. Standing quietly, attentively and unwavering.
Humiliation burned through her as she relieved herself, the sound unbearably loud in the stillness of the room. Callum kept his gaze lowered, fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder, alert without invading what little dignity she had left.
When she finished, he guided her gently back against the pillows.
"The doctor said you can be discharged later," he said.
Seraphine nodded faintly.
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 the food without appetite.
"You should eat something too," she said softly.
Callum said nothing.
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 uncertainties. "You should… go. Visit them. Dahlia and her mother."
Seraphine couldn't tell whether it was anger, restraint, or hurt too deep to name.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
And in that look, she felt that every ounce of guilt she carried laid bare between them.
"The nurse said Auntie Celia is stable," he replied quietly.
Nothing more.
He rose from the chair and crossed to the window. With one deliberate motion, he pushed it open. Cold air rushed into the room, stirring the stale stillness at last. The curtains shifted softly. Somewhere below, traffic murmured through the waking city.
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 her. It was neither an accusation nor a lament but a quiet revelation that bridged their shared past with the present stillness.
He remained by the window, sleeves stirring in the breeze while cigarette smoke curled slowly upward, dissolving into the pale morning light like the remnants of something long burned away.
Behind him, the untouched toast cooled beside Seraphine's bed.
And for the first time since returning to his life, she wondered whether Callum would ever truly see her again...
or if, every time he looked at her, all he saw was the ghost of what he had lost.
---
Before the silence could swallow them whole, Seraphine forced herself to move, and Callum immediately walk there to steady her.
The effort alone sent pain ripping through her body, but she ignored it.
"Callum," she whispered.
He didn't look at her.
Slowly, carefully, she reached for him.
Her trembling fingers barely caught the edge of his sleeve, the touch weak enough to mean nothing...
Yet he went completely still.
As if that fragile grip had stopped him from falling apart. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Seraphine tightened her hold as much as her strength allowed and said softly,
"You don't have to keep pretending with me." Her voice unwavered. "You can go see her. Talk to her. Hug her… kiss her, if that's what you need."
Something cracked across his expression but were gone instantly.
But she saw it.
The fracture beneath the control. The exhaustion beneath the discipline. The grief he had been carrying tightly that it was slowly hollowing him out from the inside.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I will be fine," she whispered, though she wasn't sure.
Callum looked away. His jaw flexed once.
Twice.
"I'm fine," he answered firmly but the lie echoed thin.
Seraphine's fingers curled more firmly around his sleeve.
"No," she murmured. "You're not."
A sharp breath escaped him.
Then, quietly, almost defensively, he said,
"I'm not the kind of scumbag who abandons his in pain wife just to make himself feel better."
The room fell silent. AGAIN.
But as if the faint hiss of wind slipping through the open window breathed near his ear and convinced him that he slowly sat beside her on the bed.
For several seconds, he stayed rigid.
Then, finally, he lowered his head onto her shoulder. His movement was small but it weigh of something too heavy to carry anymore.
Seraphine lifted her hand.
This time, he let her touch him.
Her palm rested gently against his wrist before sliding into his hand, their fingers, both cold threaded together with fragile certainty.
And somehow, that tiny touch undid him.
His shoulders slackened not completely but enough for her to feel his emotional ruin.
"Then let me hold you," Seraphine whispered. "Just for a little while."
Callum closed his eyes.
A shuddering breath escaped him.
Ignoring the pain screaming through her body, Seraphine gathered him against her as best she could.
Callum resisted for only a second.
Then he took a deep sigh.
Not violently.
Just a quiet, devastating collapse.
"If I see her again, I'll lose the will to return."
His forehead pressed against her shoulder as his breathing turned painfully restrained as though even his anguish had learned to stay silent.
Seraphine held him tight as she could.
"Then stay," she brokenly whispered against his hair, pressing herself closer as if she could shield them both. "Let God look after them for a while."