The room hummed with the thin music of monitors. A paper chain hung from the curtain rod, links colored in marker, uneven like intentions that started brave and ran out of steam.
Elena asked softly, “Maya, can we say hello?” No answer—only the small scrape of a fingernail against the plastic bedrail, an anxious metronome.
Benny lowered his body to the tile until his belly touched the cold. He didn’t whine. He let silence do the asking for him, one patient heartbeat after another.
The girl peeked again. Tear tracks made bright roads down her cheeks. Her eyes landed on the red scarf, then on the frayed edge where someone had tied and retied it too many times.
“He’s new,” Elena said, reading the look. “Still learning the schedule. But he’s very good at waiting.” Benny blinked once, dog Morse code for that’s true.
From the hallway, a cart rattled past, the smell of coffee in its wake. Maya’s throat made a small sound—half sob, half word that forgot its beginning.
Benny lifted a paw and placed it politely over the threshold, then stopped, asking without crossing. Dogs have a thousand ways to say please; the best is often just staying.
Something in the pause shifted. A room that had felt sharp around the edges softened, like light deciding to stay longer than it was supposed to.
