By midmorning, the hospital had found its rhythm again.
Carts rolled past in steady intervals, nurses spoke in practiced murmurs, and somewhere down the corridor a television played low enough to be more presence than sound. Sunlight filtered through the narrow window in Pearl's room, no longer hesitant like it had been at dawn, but confident—warm, almost defiant, as if it refused to believe this place was meant only for sickness and waiting.
Jackson sat in the same chair he had barely moved from in days.
He had shifted once, hours earlier, just long enough to stretch the ache from his legs and ease the stiffness in his shoulders. But he had not left. Not the room. Not her side. Not really himself.
Pearl's hand rested in his, her fingers slack but warm. That warmth mattered. He reminded himself of it constantly. Warm meant circulation. Warm meant life. Warm meant she was still here, still tethered to this world no matter how quiet she'd become.
"Morning," he murmured, even though it was nearly noon. He said it anyway, the word a ritual now. "You missed breakfast. Again. Hospital food though, so honestly, you're not losing much."
His voice sounded steadier than he felt. He'd learned how to do that—how to let the cracks stay hidden behind jokes, behind softness, behind words that didn't ask for anything in return.
The monitor beside the bed answered him with its gentle beeping.
Steady.
Patient.
Faithful.
Jackson watched the slow rise and fall of Pearl's chest. Every breath felt like a promise being renewed, one second at a time. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, careful not to disturb anything—like the air itself might be fragile.
"You know," he continued quietly, "Jonathan says you always hated mornings. Said you needed at least an hour before you were fully human."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
"He's right, by the way. You were terrifying before coffee."
He waited. Not for a response—he knew better than that—but for something else. A flicker. A shift. Any sign that the sound of his voice still reached her.
Outside the room, footsteps paused.
Jackson sensed it before he saw it, the subtle change in the space beyond the door. He looked up just as a nurse knocked lightly and stepped inside. She was younger than most, with tired eyes and a kindness that hadn't yet been worn thin by repetition.
"Good morning," she said softly. "How's she doing today?"
"She's… here," Jackson replied. It was the only answer he trusted.
The nurse nodded, checking the chart, glancing at the monitor. "Vitals are stable. That's good. Very good."
Jackson clung to those words more than he let on.
"Doctor Alvarez will be by later this afternoon," she added. "There's been some discussion about adjusting her stimulation schedule."
His heart skipped. "Stimulation?"
"Yes. Auditory, mostly. Familiar voices, sounds, memories." She smiled gently. "You've been doing that already, whether you knew it or not."
Jackson looked down at Pearl's hand, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. "Does it help?"
"We believe it can," the nurse said honestly. "Sometimes it's not about waking up right away. Sometimes it's about reminding the brain where it belongs."
Where it belongs.
The nurse finished her checks and slipped out quietly, leaving the room as it had been—still, expectant, suspended between moments.
Jackson exhaled slowly.
"Did you hear that?" he asked Pearl. "Apparently, I'm part of your treatment plan now. Officially."
He tried to laugh, but it came out softer than intended.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with notifications he hadn't checked, messages he hadn't answered. He ignored them all. Instead, he scrolled until he found what he was looking for.
A photo.
It was old—taken on a day that felt like it belonged to another lifetime. Pearl was laughing, head thrown back, sunlight catching in her hair. Jackson remembered that moment clearly. He'd said something ridiculous just to make her laugh like that. Just to hear it.
He held the phone up slightly, angled so she could see it if seeing was possible at all.
"Remember this?" he asked. "You'd just beat me at that stupid trivia game, and you wouldn't let it go. You made me buy dinner, dessert, and—what was it—those awful milkshakes you pretended to like just to watch me suffer."
He swallowed.
"I'd do it again. Every time. I swear."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning he hadn't said out loud until now.
Time passed strangely in that room. Minutes stretched, folded in on themselves, then vanished without warning. Jackson spoke when he could, fell silent when he couldn't. Sometimes he talked about memories. Sometimes he talked about nothing at all—the weather, the view from the window, the way Jonathan complained too much and worried even more.
At some point, the door opened again.
Jonathan stepped inside, carrying two cups of coffee and the look of someone who hadn't slept nearly enough. He paused when he saw Jackson still sitting there, still holding her hand.
"You didn't move," Jonathan said quietly.
Jackson shrugged. "Didn't seem right."
Jonathan set one of the cups on the small table beside the bed and handed the other to Jackson. "You need this."
Jackson accepted it, nodding his thanks. He took a sip, winced. "That's terrible."
"I know," Jonathan replied. "Hospital special."
They shared a small, tired smile.
Jonathan glanced at Pearl, his expression softening. "She looks… peaceful."
"Yeah," Jackson said. "Like she's somewhere else. I just wish I knew where."
Jonathan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Doctors say anything new?"
"Not yet. But they're hopeful." Jackson hesitated, then added, "They said talking to her helps."
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "You've been doing that nonstop."
"I know."
"That might be why her vitals have been so steady."
The idea settled between them, fragile and bright. Jackson didn't dare hold onto it too tightly, but he didn't push it away either.
After a while, Jonathan left again, promising to return later. The room grew quiet once more.
Jackson leaned closer to Pearl, lowering his voice. "I don't know if you can hear me," he said. "But I need you to know something."
He paused, gathering the courage he'd been rationing for days.
"I'm scared," he admitted. "Not of losing you—though that's part of it. I'm scared of what happens if you wake up and everything feels… different. If you don't remember. If you don't feel the same."
His grip tightened just a little.
"But I'll take any version of you," he said firmly. "Every single one. Just… come back."
The monitor continued its steady song.
Then—so subtle he almost missed it—Pearl's fingers twitched.
Jackson froze.
His breath caught, every muscle locking in place as he stared at her hand. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't dare imagine.
Another twitch.
This one unmistakable.
"Pearl?" he whispered, his voice trembling now. "Hey—hey, it's okay. I'm right here."
Her brow furrowed slightly, a faint crease forming as if she were frowning in her sleep. Her breathing changed, not faster, but deeper. More deliberate.
Jackson's heart pounded so loudly he was sure the machines could hear it.
"Nurse!" he called, louder now, careful not to let panic take over. "I—I think something's happening."
Footsteps rushed in moments later. A nurse, then another. They moved with calm efficiency, checking vitals, calling for a doctor. Jackson was gently guided back just enough to give them space, but he never let go of Pearl's hand.
"Pearl," he said again, his voice breaking despite his efforts. "You're safe. You're in the hospital. I'm here. You don't have to be scared."
Her eyelids fluttered.
Once.
Twice.
And then—slowly, with effort that seemed monumental—her eyes opened.
They were unfocused at first, clouded with confusion and exhaustion. They moved, searching, struggling to understand what they were seeing.
Jackson leaned forward instinctively, his face filling her field of vision.
"It's me," he said quickly, gently. "Jackson. You're okay."
Her gaze settled on him.
For a long, suspended moment, nothing happened.
Then her lips parted, dry and trembling.
"Jack…son?" she whispered, her voice barely more than breath.
The sound of his name—imperfect, fragile, real—undid him completely.
"Yes," he said, tears spilling freely now. "Yeah. That's me. I'm right here."
Her fingers curled weakly around his.
And in that small, miraculous gesture, the waiting finally broke.