Morning settled over Seraphine's discharge day in muted shades of gray.
Soft light filtered through the pale hospital curtains, reluctant to fully wake the world. The room carried the sterile scent of disinfectant softened by the lingering coolness of dawn drifting through the slightly open window.
Callum had fallen asleep without realizing it.
He sat beside her bed with his head tilted back against the chair, exhaustion finally claiming him after days of holding himself together. Even asleep, he looked as though rest itself was something he did cautiously.
Seraphine stood. Quietly and slowly preparing herself. Minutes later, she was already dressed in her coat, watching him.
This time, she was the one guarding him. If she could, she will extend the arm of time.
Her gaze lingered on the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the stiffness still locked into his shoulders, the fragility he never allowed himself to name aloud. He looked painfully human asleep.
However, a soft hesitant familiar knock interrupted her savory.
Callum's eyes opened instantly.
The shift in him was immediate but sharp enough for Seraphine to feel it. His body stiffened before his expression smoothed itself into composure.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
Slowly, Callum rose to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate precision, as though the small action helped contain whatever had stirred inside him. For a fleeting second, his eyes met Seraphine's.
As if asking her for a command.
"Go settle the bill," she said understandingly. "We two should talk."
"Okay."
His tone was calm. Controlled.
But not detached enough.
Seraphine watched him leave.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving only the distant murmur of hospital corridors and the quiet hum of machines.
Then the door opened again.
Dahlia stepped inside. Her face no longer beautiful as poetry, almost as blurry of a broken tear.
She wore simple clothes, her hair loosely tied back, a few strands falling around her tired face. There was hollow in her eyes, but not weakness. In one hand, she carried a worn paper bag, still warm enough for the faint scent of almonds and butter to drift through the room.
"Congratulations on your mother's recovery," Seraphine said first, her voice composed despite the lingering tension between them.
Dahlia smiled softly.
"And congratulations on your marriage."
No bitterness followed.
No hidden sharpness.
Only something solemn and strangely gentle—as though both women had grown too tired to wound each other carelessly.
Dahlia approached the bedside and placed the paper bag carefully on the table.
"Almond biscuits," she said quietly. "They're Callum's favorite."
Her fingers lingered briefly against the folded paper before she added,
"He used to eat these whenever he couldn't sleep."
Seraphine remained still, arms folded loosely over her coat. Neither welcoming nor hostile.
Just listening.
Dahlia drew in a small breath before continuing, her voice soft and careful, as though she were handing over pieces of someone precious.
"He's allergic to shellfish. He pretends it's not serious, but it gives him hives." A faint smile touched her lips. "He drinks black coffee without sugar. Sleeps better when it rains."
Seraphine's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"He hates tight collars," Dahlia continued. "Prefers plain white shirts, even though he never folds them properly. And when he's angry…" Her eyes lowered briefly. "He runs. Long distances. Without caring where he ends up."
The room remained quiet except for the distant wind brushing against the window.
"He can't tolerate sweet wine. He cooks better than he admits. When something's bothering him, he listens to old jazz alone in his car." A sad sort of fondness flickered across her face. "And before important meetings, he reads poetry."
Her gaze lifted again.
"He doesn't like people knowing that."
Something tightened in Seraphine's chest.
Not jealousy.
Something far quieter.
The painful realization of how much of Callum had existed beyond her reach.
Still, she stepped closer.
Her voice, when it came, was calm but unwavering.
"I'll learn those things myself."
Dahlia blinked slightly.
"But—"
"I said…" Seraphine softened, though her eyes never left Dahlia's, "I'll learn them. Slowly. In my own way."
For a long moment, the two women simply looked at each other.
Not as rivals.
Not entirely.
But as two people standing on opposite sides of the same fragile truth.
Then Dahlia spoke again.
Quietly.
"Like you promised before."
Seraphine stilled.
Dahlia's fingers tightened faintly around the strap of her bag.
"You said that once I did what you asked… once I became someone worthy enough to stand beside him…"
Her voice did not shake.
"I could take him back."
The words settled heavily between them.
Cold.
Unavoidable.
Seraphine felt her breath catch almost painfully in her throat.
Because once upon a time, she had said those words without hesitation.
Back when Callum had only been a responsibility.
Her lips parted.
No answer came.
Dahlia walked near her, looked at her and smiled.
Finally, almost too softly to hear, she whispered,
"Yes."
Dahlia smiled widely then.
Bittersweet.
"Then I'll keep trying."
She bowed her head politely before turning toward the door.
This time, she did not look back.
The soft sound of her footsteps faded into the hallway until only silence remained behind.
Seraphine stared at the closed door long after Dahlia was gone.
The room suddenly felt colder with promises that should never have been made.
Just outside that very door, Callum leaned against the wall. He had just returned from his hiding.
His hands buried in his pockets, eyes closed as if trying to capture every echo of that exchange. He hadn't gone to the billing desk. He hadn't walked away—instead, he had stood there, absorbing every word, every truth passed between the two women who had, in their quiet way, rearranged the pieces of his life.
Then, afraid to make sounds, making sure Dahlia had left no trace, he went to settle the bill.
He is now trapped between the lingering taste of almond biscuits and the chill of unspoken farewells that might come—he didn't know which one he was more afraid to bid.