The door clicked shut behind Casper, but his words echoed in the sterile air long after his footsteps vanished down the corridor.
Cecilion remained seated beside Paige's bed, unmoving. His hands—still stained faintly with dirt and dried blood from the forest—were clasped tightly in his lap. His gaze lingered on Paige's face, pale and delicate under the hospital's fluorescent lights, her hair fanned out like gold paint on a canvas.
He leaned forward slowly. "You should've stayed dead," he whispered, the words not cruel but broken. "I didn't know what to do when you stopped breathing, but now… now I don't know what to do with you alive."
A soft sigh escaped him. He dragged his hand over his face, the fatigue in his bones far older than the sleepless night that brought him here.
