Lucian stood by the door for a long time after leaving her room, his hands clenched into trembling fists. He could still hear her voice echoing in his head — "You shouldn't be here, Lucian… just leave."
Each word tore him apart more than any wound ever could.
Caelum walked beside him silently as they headed down the corridor. The white walls felt colder now, the sterile smell of the hospital suffocating. They stopped outside the doctor's office, where Dr. Han, the attending physician, was reviewing Caliste's charts.
Lucian cleared his throat. "Doctor," he began, his tone tight but controlled. "I need to know everything about her condition. Physically and mentally."
Dr. Han looked up, startled to see the man who barely left the hospital for days yet spoke so calmly now — too calm, like someone holding back an emotional storm. "Mr. Velmore," the doctor said softly, removing his glasses. "Physically, she's recovering well. Her vitals are stabilizing. But…"
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "But what?"
Dr. Han hesitated before continuing, "Her emotional trauma is severe. The miscarriage, combined with prolonged stress, caused a psychological breakdown. She's suffering from acute post-traumatic stress. For now, we've given her sedatives to help her sleep — but once she's fully conscious, the emotional pain will return stronger."
Lucian swallowed hard. "You mean…"
"She may reject reality," the doctor said carefully. "And possibly, reject the people connected to her pain. Especially…" His gaze flicked to Lucian. "someone who hurts her the most."
Lucian's jaw tensed, but he nodded slowly. "She already did."
Caelum sighed quietly, looking at his cousin's defeated expression. "Is there a way to help her recover faster?"
Dr. Han shook his head. "There's no shortcut to healing a broken heart, Mr. Velmore. The only thing she needs now is peace — and time. But forcing her to remember or confront anything too soon will only worsen her state."
Lucian leaned against the wall, his shoulders sinking as he let the doctor's words sink in. For years, he had prided himself on control — every move calculated, every emotion locked away. Yet here he was, unable to control the one thing that mattered most.
"She doesn't want to see me," Lucian muttered, more to himself than anyone. "But I can't walk away. Not now."
Caelum placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Then don't. You don't have to talk to her… just be there. Quietly. Sometimes, being near is enough."
Lucian nodded faintly, his eyes dark with exhaustion. "She said I have nothing to do with her," he whispered. "But I'll prove her wrong. Even if she never forgives me."
He stayed in the hallway for a long while after that, staring at the closed door that separated them. Through the thin hospital glass, he could see her faintly — asleep again, her face pale but peaceful.
He thought of the life that was lost — the child that never had a chance to live — and guilt gnawed at him until his chest ached.
"I should have protected them," he whispered to himself.
That night, he sat outside her room, coat draped over his shoulders, his head resting against the wall. The lights dimmed, nurses passed by quietly, but Lucian never moved.
-----
The hospital corridor was unusually quiet that afternoon.
Lucian sat in the waiting lounge, elbows on his knees, eyes hollow from sleepless nights. The faint scent of antiseptic filled the air — cold, clean, and suffocating.
Dr. Han entered with his clipboard, his expression calm but thoughtful. "Mr. Velmore, may I speak with you privately?"
Lucian straightened, nodding. They walked into the consultation room, the door closing softly behind them.
"She's physically stable," Dr. Han began, "but I'm worried about her mental state. Her episodes of crying, the recurring nightmares, the refusal to eat… it's not just grief."
Lucian looked up, tense. "Then what is it?"
Dr. Han hesitated, studying him. "I believe this isn't the first time she's gone through this kind of trauma."
Lucian's jaw tightened. "What are you implying, Doctor?"
Dr. Han's tone was careful, gentle. "Has there been a time… when Ms. Winslow had a miscarriage or lost a child before?"
For a moment, Lucian didn't move. The air between them grew heavy. His fingers curled into fists as he looked down at the floor.
Then, in a quiet voice, he answered, "No… she didn't lose a child. She gave birth."
Dr. Han blinked in surprise. "She—what?"
Lucian raised his eyes, haunted. "Three years ago. She gave birth to my son. Lucca."
There was a beat of silence.
"She signed away her parental rights to me," Lucian continued, his voice low and hollow. "Said she wanted her freedom. That she wasn't ready to be a mother. I tried to stop her… but she was determined."
Dr. Han frowned. "That doesn't sound like someone who didn't care. A woman who truly wanted freedom would not be showing these symptoms now. Her reaction — the breakdown, the denial, the guilt — it points to something deeper."
Lucian's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I think," Dr. Han said, choosing his words carefully, "she's been carrying an unresolved wound all these years. According to her current state, she's not grieving only the loss of this unborn child — she's grieving the child she gave up."
Lucian's throat tightened. He looked away, his jaw stiff, eyes glinting under the pale light.
Dr. Han went on, voice gentle but firm.
"She longs for motherhood — her body and mind are reacting to that suppressed pain. Losing this second child only tore open an old scar. It's not uncommon for women with postpartum trauma or separation guilt to experience psychological collapse years later."
Lucian exhaled shakily, the weight of realization sinking into him like a stone.
He whispered, almost to himself, "I thought she was just… tired of us. Of me."
Dr. Han looked at him sympathetically. "Maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was tired of hurting."
Lucian's eyes glistened faintly — the kind of pain that didn't scream, only burned quietly.
After a long silence, he asked, "Can she ever recover from this?"
Dr. Han sighed. "If she finds closure — yes. But it depends on whether she allows herself to forgive the past."
He paused, then added, "And maybe whether the people she loved most help her heal instead of leaving her again."
Lucian looked at the floor, his reflection trembling against the glass tiles. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.
"She doesn't need me anymore, Doctor."
Dr. Han looked at him for a long moment, then replied softly, "Maybe she doesn't need Lucian Velmore… but she needs the man who once loved her enough to hold her through the storm."
Lucian said nothing. Only silence answered — and the faint sound of Caliste's monitor beeping steadily in the next room, echoing the fragile rhythm of two broken hearts still bound by the same wound.