Your son’s small hand lies limp beside him on the white sheet. His lips are pale. His curls, once wild and impossible to tame, are damp against his temple. The room smells faintly of antiseptic, warm plastic, and now, absurdly, a trace of candle wax and cheap rose perfume from that bottle.
You set the bottle down sharply on the table.
And then, despite yourself, you look at his left side.
Nico is turned slightly toward the window, his thin body almost swallowed by the bedding. At first you see nothing beyond the ordinary horror of illness: the bruised places from needles, the fragile ribs visible beneath his skin, the rise and fall of breath that feels too shallow for a child who used to shout with joy when you chased him through the garden. Then you notice it.
Along the lower left side of his torso, just above the waistline of the hospital gown, there is a faint discoloration. Not fresh and obvious. Not the kind of dramatic mark that leaps out at you. It is more like a shadow, yellowed at the edges, hidden under the half-light and the folds of fabric.
