Your stomach drops.
You move closer and carefully lift the gown. The bruise is wider than you first thought, reaching toward his back. There is another, smaller mark near his ribs. Old enough to have faded, recent enough to still exist.
You stop breathing for a moment.
Because Nico fell last month while running through the courtyard at home, and everyone said children bruise easily. Because two weeks ago a nurse told you some medications make the skin more sensitive. Because when fear enters a family, every explanation that delays terror begins to look like mercy.
Now, all at once, those explanations feel like curtains.
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