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Six months had trickled by, each day blending into the next with the monotonous rhythm of hospital beeps and muffled footsteps on sterile floors. Carl sat by Raven's bedside, his hand perpetually entwined with hers, as if his touch alone could will her back to consciousness. The room had become a sanctuary of sorts, dampened whispers and hopeful sighs its only hymns.
Glenn moved quietly in the background, keeping an eye on Carl but fooling no one with his frequency of visits. He had grown unexpectedly fond of Raven during the group's tribulations, and now, cloaked in concern for Carl, he lingered close to her still form. Carl sensed Glenn's true motives; a nagging jealousy gnawed at him, though it pricked his conscience to even admit it silently.
Rick adopted the veil of night for his own vigil, perhaps finding solace in the solitude it provided. He came well after the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving trails of whispered apologies and unshed tears that he collected back into himself by dawn. But as three months passed, he retreated behind walls of work and survival strategies, leaving Raven's room less visited by his presence.
In contrast, just as dawn painted new promises upon the sky each day, Daryl would find a moment with Raven before Beth and Enid shuffled in to share their morning chatter with her. It was a ritual observed with sacred regularity; Daryl spoke softly to Raven about the things they'd do when she woke up-silent promises between old friends right before the others came to dote on her like a slumbering matriarch from whom they still drew strength.
Together, they formed an unwavering cadre of hope around her: Carl's steadfast love, Glenn's hidden affection, Rick's twilight solace, and Daryl's predawn confessions all interweaving into a vigil that continued to hold onto tomorrow.
* * * *
Output: The monitors beeped steadily in the dimly lit room, casting an artificial rhythm to the otherwise silent vigil. Hershel stood quietly by Raven's bedside, his eyes tracing the subtle ebb and flow of her chest as she lay inert, a mosaic of tubes and bandages testimony to battles fought and yet to win. Doc, with a furrowed brow, flipped through pages of medical charts before glancing at the monitors. A sigh escaped Hershel; it was soft enough not to disturb the sanctity of the vigil but laden with a weariness that only those who tend the sick truly understand.
"I'm seein' changes, Doc. The kinda shifts in her vitals that you'd hope for," Hershel whispered, a cautious optimism threading his voice.
Doc nodded, allowing himself a tight-lipped smile. "It's progress, alright. Not enough to sound the bells yet, but it's progress."
Even as Raven's body fought its silent war, they agreed unspoken to keep this glimmer of hope from the others.
* * * *
Nothing lingered but waiting until a few days later when footsteps echoed down the sterile corridor toward Raven's room. Carl stepped inside first, little Judith cradled against him, while Glenn followed close behind. Carl settled on a chair beside his sister's bed to attend Judith's needs, as Glenn pulled up on Raven's other side.
The room was cloaked in routine - a routine that screamed for any deviation, no matter how small.
And then it happened - as Glenn held Raven's limp hand between his own calloused fingers, he felt a pressure. Not imagined or willed into being out of sheer desperation but real-a firm squeeze. Glenn's heart lurched; joy ignited in his eyes.
"Carl!" His voice trembled with an urgency that had Carl looking up from Judith's half-buttoned onesie. "Raven...she squeezed my hand!"
Carl's heart vaulted into his throat; he had not made it entirely to his feet when another miracle unfolded - Raven's eyes a flutter of her eyelids, followed by a slow, deliberate opening, Raven's eyes revealed the bright iridescence of life once again. Carl's breath hitched, overwhelmed by joy he thought he had lost, while Glenn, in disbelief, let out a constrained sob before both men simultaneously lunged forward. Their arms wrapped around Raven in an embrace filled with all the tears they had fought back during the uncertainty of her condition.
Outside in the corridor, Glenn's form blurred past with urgency as he sought Hershel and Doc, who were never too far in these moments of crisis. Moments later they all came barreling through the door, a storm of medical proficiency intent on making sure Raven's return to consciousness was not just a fleeting moment.
The room buzzed with activity and relief as checks were made, reassurances given, and quiet conversations unfolded about what steps to take next. The backdrop to these essential rhythms was a comforting hum to Raven's recovering senses; yet amidst these harmonious sounds, there was a discordant note that went unnoticed by all but one.
Slipping into the room with a presence subdued by guilt masquerading as concern was Wyatt. He waited until every pair of eyes but Raven's were occupied before sidling close to her bedside. 'Hey,' his voice croaked falsely gentle. 'I've been right here this whole time. I wouldn't leave you.'
Raven's eyes locked onto his-not with warmth but an intensity sharpened by betrayal. 'You liar,' she spat venomously, surprising strength punctuating each word as she sat up abruptly. 'You think I didn't know?'
Wyatt reeled back, shock written plainly across his features given away by his own illusions.
Before the echoes of Raven's scornful revelation faded away, Carl and Glenn re-entered the room-their instincts for protecting Raven nothing short of primordial. With tense jaws and protective stances that left no space for misinterpretation, they corralled Wyatt towards the door.
Their message required no words-Wyatt had overstayed any fragment of welcome he may have had.
'Get out,' Carl said tersely; an order propelled by more than words. It carried weight-the culmination of unspoken promise laced with raw emotion towards Raven made manifest in action.
