The door finally opened.
She jerked to her feet, or tried to. Her ankle throbbed as she rose, and she steadied herself against the wall with a soft wince.
But she didn’t care about the pain. Her eyes were already on him—on Caius—as he stepped out of the doctor’s office.
Not just pale—drained. His eyes met hers, and for the briefest moment, she saw something crack in him.
It wasn’t a flinch, not quite. But something subtle gave him away. And that, more than anything, made her heart clench.
She limped toward him. "What did he say?" she asked breathlessly. "Is he okay?"
Caius looked at her. And in that moment, his mind—usually a cold and calculated machine—was a blur. He had prepared himself for this moment.
Had even thought about what to say. How to soften the blow. But now, standing in front of her, none of that mattered.
All he could think about was if she was going to be able to take it.
How this woman—who had already lost so much, who had fought so hard—was about to feel the floor vanish beneath her. He knew she loved Alex more than anything.
Her lips trembled as she spoke again. "Caius? What’s wrong with my baby?"
He wanted to lie. He knew she’d see through it, but he still wanted to try—if only to buy her a few more seconds of peace. A few more seconds of not knowing.
So he smiled. Not because he felt like smiling, but because he didn’t know what else to do.
"He’s going to be okay," he said too quickly, forcing the words through a throat that was closing in.
Heather frowned immediately. "Then why do you look like someone punched you in the chest?"
She wasn’t stupid. She knew his tells. His voice, his posture, even the way he was smiling—none of it matched the words he was saying.
"And why did the doctor say—"
"It’s minor," he cut in, desperate to maintain the illusion. "The doctor was being... dramatic."
But Heather just stood there, unmoving, her breath catching. She couldn’t think of a single reason why a doctor would be dramatic about a child’s condition. It didn’t make sense. And Caius never smiled .
Something was very wrong.
Her voice hardened. "Caius. Tell me what’s wrong."
Before he could answer, a nurse appeared at the corner of the hallway. Her tone was professional but kind. "Alex is stable for now. He’s in Room 313. You can go in—but quietly, please. He’s resting."
Heather didn’t hesitate. She turned immediately, but the weight on her injured ankle gave out beneath her again. She faltered with a soft cry.
Caius caught her before she could fall. His hands found her waist instinctively. "Easy," he said, trying to steady her. "Don’t push it."
She shook him off, teeth clenched. "Don’t tell me what to do."
She limped forward, pulling away with a quiet hiss of pain as she dragged her foot like a burden. Her body was breaking, but not as quickly as her heart. She didn’t care how badly it hurt.
Nothing hurt more than not being with her son.
They reached the room together. The door stood in front of them, plain and quiet.
Heather’s hand hovered just inches from the handle like it might burn her. She wasn’t sure why she hesitated—only that something inside her screamed that the moment she opened it, something would change.
Caius reached forward and gently pushed the door open.
"I’ll let you go first," he murmured.
The lights inside were dim, the soft blue glow of a cloud night light shone across the far wall. It wasn’t his usual lamp from home, but the hospital version—a pale, artificial comfort.
But Alex wasn’t looking at them. His eyes were open, yes, but dull and unfocused, turned toward the faint glow like he couldn’t quite place where he was.
He looked so small in that bed. The wires and tubes made him look even smaller.
There was an IV in his arm, an oxygen line nestled under his nose, and machines hummed in the background, blinking and beeping quietly like mechanical lullabies.
Heather stood frozen.
She hadn’t expected this.
She had told herself he would be sitting up, or at least stirring. She had told herself she would see color in his cheeks, or some recognition in his eyes.
But this—this lifeless stillness—made something inside her break open.
Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the edge of the bed.
"You said it’s minor," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You said he’d be okay."
She turned toward Caius, her eyes glistening with fresh tears. "What is this? Why is he ? Why didn’t you—" Her voice gave out, and a sob rose in its place. "Why didn’t you just tell me?"
There were no words he could say that wouldn’t sound cruel or pointless now.
Heather brushed past him, stumbling back out of the room, her vision swimming with tears, her hand covering her mouth like she could hold in the scream threatening to tear free.
She didn’t know where she was going—only that she had to get away from the machines, the quiet beeping, the too-small bed where her son lay still and pale.
She pressed her back against the cold wall just outside the room and slid to the floor, her arms wrapping around herself like she could hold the pieces of her body together.
She didn’t understand.
He’d said it was minor. That Alex would be okay. He had looked her in the eye and told her it wasn’t serious.
And yet, Alex looked like he was already halfway gone.
She buried her face in her hands.
Even when it was something —something that mattered more than anything—Caius still chose lie over truth.
Caius stood in the doorway, watching her leave. He didn’t follow.
Alex lay quiet behind him.
His lips barely moved, and his breath was shallow. He looked like a boy hovering on the line between this world and the next.
And Caius—who had never known how to pray—stood there, wishing he knew how to start.