The steady beep of the monitor filled the hospital room with a rhythm that had begun to feel cruel. As though the machines had decided life could be measured by numbers alone while the people inside the room slowly unraveled. Matthew lay against the white sheets without moving, one side of his forehead wrapped in bandages, faint bruising scattered along his jaw and neck. The swelling around his temple had gone down slightly since morning, but his skin still carried that pale, drained look Clara hated. It frightened her. Not because he looked weak, but because he looked absent. She sat beside him with a small white towel in her hand, carefully wiping the thin layer of sweat from his forehead. Every few seconds, her fingers paused near his hairline like she expected him to suddenly wake up and complain about how cold the towel was. But he never did. Across the room, Mrs. Taylor sat stiffly on the visitor's chair, her handbag resting untouched on her lap. She had not spoken
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