CHAPTER 151: THE WAIT BETWEEN HEARTBEATS

The lights were dimmed now. A faint glow from the hallway seeped in beneath the door, stretching thin lines across the floor tiles.

The monitor beside Billy’s bed blinked slowly, rhythm steady and calm.

Camila sat curled in the visitor’s chair, blanket over her shoulders, phone untouched in her lap.

The open book in her hands had long since become irrelevant—her eyes fixed only on him.

Billy lay still, his chest rising and falling with the measured assistance of the IV.

His face was pale but peaceful, the kind of calm that made her want to believe he was simply sleeping—dreaming, maybe, of something warm.

Camila leaned forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I hope you’re dreaming something beautiful," she whispered.

She reached for his hand—fingers cold but steady—and held it gently.

"You’re so stubborn, you know that? Even now, you’re late to wake up."

A soft smile flickered at the corner of her lips. It didn’t quite hold.

She squeezed his hand once, then leaned back, letting the silence settle again.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something warm the nurse had brought earlier.

The city murmured quietly outside the glass—horns, wind, life continuing just beyond the stillness.

Camila let her head rest back against the chair.

She didn’t cry. Not now. Not tonight.

She just stayed.

For him.

For as long as it took.

Meanwhile in the village

The kitchen was already glowing with early sun. Light spilled in through the small windows, catching on the worn wooden cabinets and the soft swirl of steam rising from the pot on the stove.

Mark stood barefoot near the counter, sleeves rolled up, gently slicing fresh tomatoes.

His movements were unhurried, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Across from him, Mr. Dand stirred something in a deep pot—beans, spiced just the way they liked it.

The familiar sizzle filled the room, mingling with the earthy scent of roasted yam and ground pepper.

"You cut those too thin," Mr. Dand murmured without looking up.

Mark chuckled softly, adjusting his slices. "You say that every time."

"And yet, you keep slicing them like paper."

There was no bite in the words, only affection dressed in routine.

The kind passed between people who had lived too many quiet mornings together to bother pretending.

A bird chirped somewhere beyond the window. Outside, the village was just beginning to stir—roosters calling, distant voices, the crack of firewood being lit for other breakfasts.

Mark glanced toward the hallway briefly, lowering his voice just slightly. "He’s still asleep?"

Mr. Dand nodded, voice gentle. "Let him. He’s been working too hard. I told him to rest today."

Mark hummed in agreement. Still slicing. Still thinking. "He doesn’t really rest."

"No," Mr. Dand said. "Not when he’s missing someone."

A quiet settled between them for a breath. Not heavy. Just present.

Mark shifted the sliced tomatoes into a bowl and stepped over to the pot, helping stir.

"You ever wonder," he said softly, "if it’s really okay to wait on someone who’s so far away?"

Mr. Dand gave him a long look. "It’s not about distance, son. It’s about what you’re waiting for."

Mark didn’t answer, but his hands stilled over the pot.

The food continued to simmer.

And in that small kitchen, the quiet spoke more than either of them could.

The beans bubbled gently now, the scent of breakfast richer in the air.

Mark stood still, spoon in hand, eyes lowered. Mr. Dand wiped his hands on a cloth and turned toward him, leaning one hand on the table.

"So... How’s Billy?" he asked, voice quiet but curious. "Did you speak with him again?"

Mark’s fingers tightened slightly around the wooden spoon. "I called," he said after a moment. "Two days ago."

A pause. "But... he wasn’t the one who picked up."

Mr. Dand’s eyes narrowed, sensing more.

Mark glanced up briefly, then away again. "Camila answered. Said he hasn’t woken up since the surgery."

The soft clatter of the spoon as Mark set it down echoed more than it should’ve. "It’s been four days," he added, barely above a whisper.

Mr. Dand didn’t respond at first. He looked toward the stove, the steam, the morning that had started so quietly.

The flicker in his gaze was subtle, but unmistakable—concern, worn and weathered by years.

"And Artur doesn’t know."

Mark shook his head. "I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t."The words tasted like ash. He’d rehearsed them every night, but none of them ever sounded right.

"Good," Mr. Dand murmured after a moment. "He’s only just breathing steady again. No need to pull the ground from under him."

Mark leaned against the counter, arms folding. "Still... I feel like I’m lying to him."

Mr. Dand gave a quiet, understanding sigh and walked toward the cupboard, pulling down two mugs.

"Sometimes protecting someone means saying nothing until they can handle the truth. It’s not lying. It’s loving."

The kettle whistled gently.

He poured water into both mugs, letting the tea leaves steep, his hands steady. "Let’s eat," he said. "We’ll carry the weight for now. Until he can."

Mark gave a slow nod, the tension in his shoulders sinking—but not lifting.

The sun continued rising outside, casting soft lines across the kitchen walls.

And between them, the unspoken worry hung in the space like fog over the fields.

The air had shifted. That gentle comfort from earlier had thinned—just enough to feel it.

Mark leaned against the counter, quietly staring into his tea.

Mr. Dand stood beside the stove, not stirring anymore, just watching the steam rise.

Outside their awareness, footsteps had paused in the hallway. Neither noticed Artur at first.

He stood just around the corner, back pressed to the wooden frame of the hallway—half-hidden by the edge of the wall.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But the words had reached him anyway.

"He hasn’t woken up." "Four days." "Artur doesn’t know." "No need to pull the ground from under him."

His breath caught in his throat.

Four days. Surgery. Silence.

A sharp flash of memory cut through him—Billy, standing in that room, arms wrapped tight around him, whispering:

"If I could stay... I would."

Artur’s jaw clenched.

He had told him to go. He’d pushed him away.

And now—he might not come back at all.

Artur blinked rapidly, eyes stinging. He took a slow, shaking breath and stepped into the doorway.

His voice didn’t rise, but it cut. "What were you talking about?"

Mark’s head snapped toward him.

Mr. Dand straightened. Too slow.

Artur looked between them—already knowing. His voice was low. Flat. Tight. "I heard you."

A beat. No one spoke.

"Is he..." His voice broke for the first time. "Is Billy—dying?"

"No," Mr. Dand said quickly. "No, son. But... he hasn’t woken up. Since the operation."

Artur’s mouth parted slightly. Like he was about to speak—but no sound came out.

He took a single step forward, hands curling into fists at his sides. "You knew," he said to Mark, voice trembling now. "You knew and you didn’t tell me."

Mark stood frozen. "I didn’t want to—"

"Didn’t want to what? Hurt me?" Artur snapped. "He could be—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head.

"I pushed him to go back. Told him to leave."

He swallowed hard.

"Said I couldn’t do this while he was still here."

His voice cracked—raw, stripped.

"And now... maybe he’ll never come back."

He turned away sharply, pacing a step, trying to breathe through it—but his hands trembled.

Mr. Dand stepped forward, measured and soft-footed. "Artur..."

But he couldn’t hear anything now. Not clearly.

Only that echo in his chest.

What if he never gets the chance to say he was sorry?

Artur’s chest rose and fell too fast, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing now—back and forth near the doorway, unable to sit still.

"I can’t—" he muttered, then stopped. "I need to go."

Mr. Dand’s brows furrowed gently. "Go where?"

Artur turned to him, eyes glassy but sharp. "To the city. To him."

Mark shifted from where he stood, still quiet, still watching. "Artur..."

"I need to see him," Artur said again, louder this time. "Please. I can’t just stay here—acting like everything’s fine. He’s there, alone, and I— I need to be there too."

He turned to his father, voice cracking at the edges. "Can I go?"

Mr. Dand stepped forward, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, gently—he placed a steadying hand on Artur’s shoulder. "You don’t have to ask me, son. You just needed to say it out loud."

Artur blinked, throat working to swallow the wave rising behind his ribs. "So I can go?"

"Yes," Mr. Dand nodded. "Of course, you can."

Artur let out a breath that almost sounded like relief—but it shook too much to land properly.

Mark stepped forward slowly. "I’ll help you pack," he offered. "You shouldn’t go alone."

But Artur shook his head. "No," he said softly. "Not this time. This... I need to do this by myself."

A beat of silence followed. The only sound was the low simmer of the forgotten pot on the stove.

Then Mr. Dand said quietly— "Take my car. It’s gassed up. Go when you’re ready."

Artur nodded once—his voice almost a whisper. "Thank you."

And without another word, he turned and left the kitchen, already headed toward his room, eyes burning, heart braced against the silence that might greet him in that hospital bed.