When we arrived at the hospital, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and blooming jasmine from nearby planters. Tristan helped me out of the car and led me to a bench just inside the entrance. His touch, once warm and reassuring, felt mechanical now—a practiced gesture devoid of real connection.
"Wait here. I'll go make the arrangements," he said, crouching down to meet my gaze. He smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling tight as if trying to reassure himself more than me.
Through the hospital's glass doors, I saw her—Anya. She was waving at Tristan with both hands, her face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
Tristan's composure cracked for a split second, but he quickly recovered, turning back to me briefly. "Stay put," he murmured. Then, without hesitation, he sprinted to her.
From my seat, I watched them through the glass. Tristan enveloped her in a tight embrace, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. Anya clung to him, sobbing dramatically, her voice just audible through the door.