Rules are rules in an ICU. But human beings write them, and human beings, when faced with what they cannot fix, sometimes make room for what they cannot explain. Under special permission, Buddy visited Room 214. The first time, the change felt like a draft of warm air. He rested his head on Sophie’s arm and the monitor steadied, not dramatically, just enough to make trained professionals glance twice.

“I can’t believe it,” Clare whispered.

“Let him stay,” Margaret said.

From then on, Buddy’s visits were penciled into the unspoken calendar. On his days, Sophie sometimes opened her eyes. She mouthed his name. Her breathing deepened; meals went a spoonful or two better. No one called it a cure. No one had to. They called it what it was: comfort, and the body’s quiet response to it.

Then came the hard night. Alarms stacked on alarms. Doors opened and closed with a soft thump. Somewhere down the hall, an ice machine rattled like rain.