This room. It used to hum, you know? That constant, mechanical breath of the 'machine that kept him alive.' Every beep, every flicker, was a prayer. Now it’s just... quiet. Too quiet. The sunlight falls on his empty bed, mocking me with its peacefulness. I can still hear the phantom sounds, feel the tension in the air. We fought so hard, prayed so hard, clung to every little sign that machine showed us.
And now it’s gone, and he’s gone. This room holds all of that—the desperate fight, the endless worry, and finally, the unbearable silence.