The silence that followed Gregor's words lingered, heavy and unyielding. It didn't soften or ease; instead, it deepened, settling in the room like a storm that refused to break.
It pressed against their lungs, making each breath feel deliberate and labored, as if even inhaling required effort in the wake of everything that had been said.
Gregor stood beside Calista's bed, his head bowed, shoulders trembling. His fingers were clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles pale beneath strained skin, veins standing out sharply along his wrists.
He continued to speak, unraveling as he went. The weight of guilt didn't dissipate after confession; it multiplied, branching into every memory and consequence, touching every face that had suffered.
"I still shouldn't have pushed for it," he repeated, his voice rough and worn, scraping against the quiet like something breaking apart.
