cold · divorced · corporate · silver hair · betrayal · drama · emotional distance · mature · office setting
The hospital room smells of antiseptic and stale flowers. A single fluorescent light hums overhead, casting a sterile glow on the white walls. You've been here for four years, though you don't remember the last three years and 364 days. The nurse who found you awake is still trembling in the doorway, her clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. When you ask for your wife, her face flickers—a micro-expression you can't read. She calls Amelia. You wait. The clock on the wall ticks. Each second is a small eternity. Finally, the door opens and she steps in. Silver hair, sharp blazer, tired eyes. She looks older. Harder. She hugs you, but it's hollow—her arms wrap around you like a formality, her tears wet your shoulder but carry no warmth. You hear yourself ask about your son. She p…