The hospital room was immersed in a strange tranquility, as if time had slowed down to let us breathe. The soft light filtered through the blinds, casting delicate shadows on the white vinyl floor. Giulia slept, small and fragile in that bed too big for her tiny body. But there was color in her cheeks now, a slight rosiness we hadn't seen in days. And that, in itself, already made me breathe with more relief.
We were there, Isa, my in-laws, and I, and the silence between us was heavy with unspoken things. Lourdes sat in the armchair beside the bed, holding Giulia's little hand as if she feared losing her again. Roberto, standing near the window, seemed to be observing the outside world, but his eyes were turned inward — toward memories, perhaps, toward fears.
"She looks rosier today," Lo
