Chapter 3 - The Light Behind the Black Velvet
The medical wing was freezing. The air conditioning was humming at a continuous, mechanical whine, keeping the air sterile but completely devoid of warmth. Dr. Franklin Yates was standing over Blythe’s bed, adjusting the drip counter on the primary IV stand, when the door clicked open.
Waverly stepped in, followed by the heavy, silent presence of Lawson Mercer.
"Lawson," Dr. Yates said, turning with a professional smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I’ve just increased the pediatric sedative. Blythe was showing signs of agitation, and we want to ensure her oxygen expenditure remains low. Who is this?"
Waverly didn't answer him. She walked straight past the doctor, her eyes locked on the heavy, double-lined black velvet curtains that blocked out every single inch of the morning light. The room was illuminated only by the green and blue glow of the cardiac monitors and the harsh overhead examination lamps.
"What are you doing?" Dr. Yates asked, his tone sharpening as Waverly reached for the thick silk pull-cord hanging by the window frame. "Ms. Dunn, is it? Those curtains are closed to prevent sensory overload. The patients require total rest."
Waverly didn't look back. She wrapped her fingers around the cord and pulled with her entire weight.
With a loud, metallic scraping sound, the heavy velvet split down the middle.
The brilliant, blinding winter sun of Chicago flooded the room, bouncing off the white marble accents and hitting the two small beds with a sudden, golden intensity. The light caught the dust motes dancing in the sterile air, turning the gloomy room into something that looked, for the first time in months, like the world outside.
"Turn it off," Dr. Yates barked, stepping toward her. "Lawson, control this woman. The light is too intense for their pupillary response—"
"Stop talking," Lawson said.
Dr. Yates froze.
On the left bed, five-year-old Jonah stirred. His small hand, which had been resting limply against the white sheet, twitched. His eyelids fluttered against the sudden warmth of the sun hitting his face. A low, raspy breath left his lips, followed by a sound that wasn't a groan or a cry.
It was a sigh.
Waverly walked over to Jonah’s side. She didn't touch his medical lines. She didn't look at the monitors. She simply sat down on the edge of the mattress, took off her heavy gray coat, and tossed it onto the floor. Underneath, she wore a simple, faded yellow sweater.
"Hi, Jonah," she whispered, her voice incredibly soft, dropping into the exact rhythm of a mother who had spent a thousand nights singing in the dark. "The sun is up. The lake is frozen over today, and it looks like a big piece of glass."
Jonah’s eyes opened fully. They were dull, surrounded by dark gray shadows, but they fixed on the bright yellow of her sweater. "Who are you?"
"I’m Waverly," she said, reaching out to gently smooth down the few strands of hair left near his temple. Her touch was warm, her hands unhurried. "I’m here to keep you company while your dad fixes things."
Lawson stood at the foot of the bed, his hands dug deep into his pockets, his jaw locked so tight the muscle in his cheek was trembling. He watched his son’s monitor. The heart rate, which had been climbing steadily due to stress and fever, dropped three beats.
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Then four.
Then it stabilized.
