The hospital room was not silent. Machines hummed. Air shifted through vents. Rubber soles passed the doorway in steady intervals. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried with fresh outrage at the world. And yet the room felt still.
Andrew woke before the sun fully rose. Not because of pain. Not because of the twins. But because something in him had learned to wake lightly. The blinds were half open. A thin wash of gray morning filtered through them, touching the edge of the bassinets and climbing slowly across the opposite wall.
Tina was awake. She wasn't in the bed. She sat in the chair near the window, one ankle crossed over the other, elbows resting on her knees. She wasn't on her phone. She wasn't fidgeting. She wasn't whispering commentary to the sleeping twins. She was watching the light move.
Ss
