Beside my bed, Arthur stood at attention. He hadn’t sat down since we arrived. He hadn’t paced. He stood perfectly still, a silent sentinel guarding a broken fortress. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped rhythmically under his skin.
I turned my head slightly. I saw something I had only seen once in my entire life—when my mother had passed away a decade ago.
A single, silent tear escaped the corner of the General’s eye, tracking slowly down his weathered cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He reached out with a scarred, calloused hand and gently stroked my hair. The touch was impossibly light, a stark contrast to the immense power coiled within him.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, my voice sounding like dry leaves. “I couldn’t hold on to it.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened, the sorrow instantly replaced by a cold, terrifying clarity. “This was not a failure of your body, Maya. This was a failure of your environment.”
I picked up my phone from the bedside table. My battery was at twelve percent. There were no missed calls. No frantic texts asking where I was.
I opened my messages to Leo.
Maya: I’m in the hospital. We lost the baby. Please call me.