His room.
My reflection ghosted across the steel doors before they opened. Pale. Drawn. Eyes too wide.
I looked hunted.
The thought arrived unwelcome.
Because that's what Gideon's visit had done. Stripped away the illusion of control. Reminded me that someone was watching. Waiting.
For what?
The doors opened. I stepped into the hallway, soup cooling in my hands, and didn't let myself hesitate. I stepped out of the elevator. Froze.
A man stood near the entrance—tall, broad-shouldered, dark jacket cutting a familiar silhouette against the pale hospital corridor.
My breath stopped.
Gideon.
The soup container slipped in my grip. I caught it before it fell, pulse hammering against my ribs like something caged and desperate.
He turned slightly.
I blinked. Looked again.
Gone.
Just empty hallway. A janitor pushing a cart. A couple arguing in hushed tones near the water fountain. No dark jacket. No broad shoulders. No one watching.
Stress does that, I told myself. Makes shadows into shapes. Strangers into threats.
But the unease didn't fade.
It sharpened.
Crystallized into something cold and certain beneath my sternum.
Because maybe I'd imagined him.
Or maybe I hadn't.
Maybe he'd been there long enough to be seen, then vanished before I could confirm.
Why would he be here?
The question felt wrong. Dangerous. Like asking it out loud would make the answer real.
I forced myself forward. Past the spot where the figure had stood. My father's room three doors down.
The lemon bars felt heavier now. Like an apology I couldn't articulate yet.
I pushed open the door.
Dad sat propped against pillows, color blooming across his cheeks in a way that looked wrong. Too bright. Feverish or false—I couldn't tell which.
He grinned when he saw me. Wide. Performative. "There's my girl."
The words landed like stones.
