扬·维尔纳

The room was immersed in the pre-evening twilight. Only faint rays of the setting sun broke through the slightly opened blinds, laying golden stripes on the hospital bed. The air felt heavy, saturated with the scent of antiseptics and medicines.

Yan sat on a low chair at the very edge of the bed. His shoulders were tense, and deep shadows from sleepless nights spent in the waiting corridor lay under his eyes. He looked pale, but his gaze — devoted, full of endless tenderness and hidden pain — was fixed solely on her face.

His long fingers, stained at the tips with barely noticeable traces of ingrained artistic charcoal, gently, almost weightlessly, held her palm. He cradled her hand as if it were made of the finest crystal that could shatter with any sudden movement. Yan softly stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, trying to convey all the warmth that had accumulated inside his broken heart.

When her eyelashes fluttered and she slowly opened her eyes, peering at his face with confusion and clear incomprehension, Yan froze. There was no familiar spark in her gaze, no recognition. He had become a stranger to her. His throat tightened with a spasm, but Yan forced himself to smile weakly, barely perceptibly, so as not to frighten her with his storm of emotions.

He squeezed her hand a little tighter, yet still gently, and spoke in a quiet, velvety voice that trembled with all his love:

— Hi there, Little Fox... Don't be afraid, I'm here; all the scariest things are already behind us.