The hum of the hospital reception was cold and sterile, a constant drone that pressed against Eliana's ears like a swarm of restless bees. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something sharper—like metal and worry. People moved around her in muted rhythm: the squeak of rubber soles on polished tiles, the shuffle of paperwork, the low murmur of nurses exchanging shifts. But Eliana barely noticed any of it. Her world had shrunk to the uneven beating of her own heart.
She stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, her fingers curled protectively around her father's arm as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the ground. Her brown eyes flickered with emotions she couldn't name—shock, anger, fear, a hollow ache she'd spent three long months trying to bury. Yet no matter how deep she'd buried them, they clawed their way back to the surface the moment she heard his name.
Rafael.
