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The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee had become the backdrop of Emmanuel’s life. For three weeks, he had occupied the vinyl chair in Room 402, a permanent fixture beside Loveth’s bed.
Loveth lay still, her breathing rhythmic but assisted by the soft hiss of the ventilator. Emmanuel watched the monitor, where her heart traced a steady, glowing mountain range across the screen. He often thought about their wedding day—how she’d tripped on her hem and laughed so hard her veil shook. Now, her laughter was a silent memory he kept on loop.
"The doctor said today might be the day you wake up, Love," he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of hope and exhaustion. He took her hand, noting how small it felt in his. He didn't ask for a miracle, just a sign.
He spent the afternoon reading her favorite poems aloud. As the sun began to dip, casting long, amber shadows across the linoleum floor, he felt a faint, rhythmic pressure against his palm. He froze. It wasn't a twitch; it was a deliberate squeeze.
Emmanuel leaned in, his heart hammering. "Loveth?"
Her eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of a long sleep, before finally opening. Her gaze was unfocused at first, but then it drifted toward him. A small, weak smile touched her lips—the same smile that had anchored him for a decade.
"You stayed," she rasped, her voice barely a breath.
"I’m not going anywhere," he replied, tears finally breaking. Patient love had waited, and finally, it had been answered.