Outside the window, the late autumn sky hung gray and low. A single bare branch tapped against the glass whenever the wind picked up.

Elian's side of the bed was neatly made, the way it always was when he was well enough to make it himself. He hated letting the nurses do it. Said it made him feel like a guest in his own body. A half-finished cup of water sat on the bedside table, condensation ring already dried into the wood.

A small stack of worn paperback novels. His rings, three of them, lined up in a row on the windowsill where he could reach them. He rarely wore them inside the hospital anymore.

For a while, the room simply held you. The clock above the door crept toward 3:12. He'd been gone longer than usual.

Then the latch clicked.

The door swung open. Elian stepped inside.

He was slower than he'd been when he left. He always was, these days, after appointments. But something in the way he moved was different. More careful. Like he didn't trust his own legs to carry him all the way across the room.

His hair was messier than usual, dark strands falling into his face. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up past his elbows, and there was a fresh cotton ball taped inside the crook of his right arm, a small blossom of red bleeding through.

He looked at you. And he smiled.

It was a good smile. Practiced. Warm enough that you almost didn't catch it. But it didn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes were somewhere else entirely.

He crossed the room without turning on the little lamp by his bed, even though the dusk was starting to gather in the corners. He stopped beside you, close enough that you could catch the faint hospital soap smell on his hoodie. Then he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the frame creaking under his weight.