The ICU doors open with a soft hydraulic sigh that feels louder than it should. The hallway beyond is quieter than the emergency department, the lighting dimmer and deliberately controlled. Everything here feels measured. The chaos of the trauma bay has been replaced by rhythm. Machines hum in steady intervals. Footsteps are softer. Voices are lowered automatically, as if grief itself must be regulated.
A nurse leads him down the corridor without unnecessary conversation. The soles of his shoes strike the floor with a sound that feels intrusive in the stillness. He becomes aware of his own breathing, shallow and uneven, as if he has to remind his lungs how to function. Each room they pass contains a life suspended between crisis and recovery. Curtains half drawn. Monitors glowing. Families sitting rigidly beside beds.
At the final room, the nurse pauses and turns toward him.
"She'll look different," she says gently. "The equipment can be overwhelming."
