"I didn't mean it that way—" his voice was edged with a hint of desperation, a plea for understanding that hung between them, unspoken yet tangible.
However, their discourse was abruptly halted by a sharp knock on the door, a stark interruption that shifted their focus in unison.
In a parallel scene, Lucille's presence unfurled like a shadowy specter, her palm making contact with Tristan's rigid shoulder, her words a whispered entreaty that carried the weight of concern.
"You should rest. You're only harming yourself like this."
Tristan's response was a weary surrender, his eyes closing as he heaved a sigh that seemed to carry the burdens of the world. His hand pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of momentary respite before he turned to face the woman behind him.
"I'm grateful for your help. But there's something I really want to ask you." Tristan's voice trembled slightly as he initiated the conversation, his gaze briefly flickering toward the bed where his son lay.
