At the door to the room, the nurse eased it open with practiced gentleness.

“Here she is, sir,” she whispered. “She’s asleep. The IV is almost fully adjusted.”

Thor stepped inside as if crossing a thin line between storm and stillness. There lay Celina, hair fanned across the pillow, her face tired yet serene. The bandage on her forehead stood out against her pale skin. Beside her, the IV hung with its clear drip, the only sound in the room a steady, rhythmic patter.

The nurse moved to the equipment, adjusted something with a deft touch, checked the monitor’s readings, and scribbled a note on her clipboard. Before leaving, she cast Thor a kind look.

“Any change, the emergency button is right by the bed. And… she’s stable now. All she needs is rest, calm… and love.” She smiled discreetly—almost like a co-conspirator—before slipping out, as only those who understand the sacred quiet of love and fragility can.

In the hush that followed, only the soft drip of the IV and the regular beep o