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The ride to Langford feels as though it takes an eternity. I honestly don’t know if it’s taking Vinny hours or minutes to get us there. Or if the frowning face in the clouds is real. God, everything feels as though it’s happening to someone else.

Domenico sits beside me in the back, his thigh pressed against mine, his hand on my knee. He doesn’t fill the silence with useless platitudes. He doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay. He just sits there, solid and warm, and lets the silence be what it is.

I stare out the window at a Boston I barely recognize. October light is sharp and cold, cutting across buildings in long, pale gold slices. People walk down sidewalks with coffee cups and scarves, living their ordinary lives while my mom’s heart has stopped.

The numbness cracks.

Just a little. Just enough for the first sob to push through, a single, broken sound that I swallow before it can become anything bigger.

Domenico’s hand slides from my knee to my wrist. His thumb finds my pulse and holds it, and I focus on the pressure of his skin against mine because it’s the only real thing in the car.

Langford looks exactly the same. Same automatic doors. Same antiseptic smell. Same everything.

We barely slow down as we cross the lobby and head for the elevators. Domenico keeps one hand at the small of my back, steering me, and by the time the doors open on the seventh floor, my legs feel like they belong to someone else again.

The hallway is quieter than I remember. The air smells different here—less antiseptic. Dr. Morgan is waiting outside room seven-twenty-one.

She’s still in her white coat, her face composed in the careful blank of someone who’s done this before. Her eyes find mine, and something flickers there—not pity, which I’m grateful for, but something closer to regret.

“Kira.” She steps toward me. “I’m so sorry.”

Domenico’s hand slides from my back to my waist.

“She suffered another seizure,” Dr. Morgan says. Her voice is exactly the way it was on the phone: measured, precise, each word placed with the care of someone handling something fragile. “The EEG showed generalized tonic-clonic activity. Her blood pressure dropped rapidly, so we administered…”

Even though I know it’s rude, I tune Dr. Morgan out. I don’t care about the medicine, the timeline, the procedures, or the clinical language that turns my mom into a series of failed interventions.

“I want to see her.” My voice sounds thin. Strangled.

Dr. Morgan stops immediately. “Of course.” She glances toward the closed door beside her. “The nurses have prepared her. Take as long as you need.”

Domenico’s hand finds mine and squeezes. Hard. Not comforting—grounding. The kind of pressure that says I’m here, I’m real, and you’re not going anywhere I can’t follow.

Dr. Morgan steps away from the door. “I’ll be at the nurses’ station if you need me.”

I don’t have questions. I have nothing.

To my surprise, Domenico lets go of my hand. “I’ll be right here,” he says. His voice is low. Rough. And I know this is him giving me space, being considerate. “Take your time.”

I push the door open.

The room is dim, and the bed looks smaller. Mom looks smaller, too.

She’s on her back with her eyes closed. Her hands are folded on top of the sheet as if she’s praying. Such a natural position for her.

I cross the room on legs that don’t feel like mine. Instead of taking the chair, I kneel next to Mom’s bed and take her hands. Her fingers are limp in mine, and I curl my hand around them and hold on like I’m trying to warm her up.

“Mom.” The word catches. I clear my throat and try again. “Mom, it’s Kira.”

The silence in the room is different from the silence I’m used to—deeper, emptier, the kind of silence that doesn’t have a person breathing at the center of it.

I open my mouth to talk to her, as I’ve done so many times. But… no sound comes out, no word forms on my tongue.

Looking around the room, I can’t help but wonder what the point of talking would even be. She isn’t there, in her body, I mean. She’s… gone. She won’t hear whatever I say.

I look back at Mom. At her closed eyes, her peaceful face, the faint lines around her mouth that used to deepen when she smiled. She doesn’t look as if she’s in pain. She looks like she’s sleeping, and part of me wants to shake her awake.

The other part knows better.