In the harsh hospital lighting, she could see every line of worry etched across his face. Something shifted in her chest - an unfamiliar loosening she didn’t examine.

He froze at the sight of her beside his mother, his stride catching mid-step. Something dark crossed his features - not quite anger, not quite fear - before his jaw tightened and smoothed it away. His next steps came deliberate, measured, like cross-examination footwork.

Then his gaze found his mother. The deliberate steps faltered. The linear lights bore down on his shoulders, each movement forward less certain than the last, as if the stark glare itself was pressing him toward the bed.

“Mom?” The word came out measured, almost normal. Like he’d found his footing.

But then silence. His eyes betrayed him first. “I tried to… when they called, I couldn’t…” Each word came out smaller than the last. His usual eloquence crumbled as he moved toward the bed. “The last time you were…”