UPSIDE DOWN

~ 49 ~

Andrea

I've stopped counting the hours. Time has stopped meaning anything.

The sun's gone down and come back up again, and I've spent every second in this same hallway, staring through the ICU glass at the fragile figure on the other side. Sylvie hasn't moved. Not once.

It's been twenty-seven hours since the surgery. The doctors said forty-eight would decide everything. Every tick of the clock feels like a countdown.

The others have drifted in and out. Papa went to call one of the contacts he trusts for medical support. Aurelio's sitting across the hall, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. Matteo fell asleep in a chair. Francesco is pacing, muttering silent prayers. Luca's dozing off too, still pale from his own wounds.

And me? I can't move. I can't leave her.

The machines hum in rhythm, steady, constant, haunting. The green line on the monitor blips calmly, her heart still fighting. Her breathing is shallow but steady.

I keep staring at her hand, small, pale, resting over the white sheets. It looks lifeless.

Until... it doesn't.

At first, I think it's my imagination. A trick of light. The exhaustion.

But then I see it again. A faint twitch, her index finger jerks, just slightly. Then again.

My heart stops. I press my face closer to the glass. "Sylvie?" My voice is barely a whisper.

Nothing.

Then her hand moves again, this time more visibly, her fingers curling weakly, almost like she's reaching for something.

"Aurelio!" I shout, louder now, standing up so fast the chair crashes behind me. He's up instantly. "What? What happened?"

"She moved." My voice cracks. "Her hand, it moved."

That gets everyone's attention. Francesco bolts to the glass. Matteo stumbles awake, blinking. Even Papa rushes over, his face pale and tense.

Luca whispers, eyes wide, "Please tell me you're not joking."

I shake my head. "I swear. Look."

And right on cue, her fingers twitch again. Slow. Small. But there.

Francesco slams the emergency call button, yelling for a nurse. Within seconds, the doors swing open and a doctor rushes in, followed by two nurses.

They move around her in quick, controlled motions, checking the monitors, adjusting the IV, flashing a light into her eyes. I can't hear what they're saying through the glass, but I can read their lips. Response detected. Possible neural activity returning.

Papa grips the back of my neck tightly, not in anger, but in disbelief. "She's fighting."

I nod, tears already burning my eyes. "Yeah. She's fighting."

The doctor looks up and signals one of the nurses to lower the sedation level. A few moments later, the twitch becomes stronger, her hand curls again, her lips part just a little, a faint breath escaping that sounds almost like a sigh.

Matteo gasps. "Oh my God..."

The doctor steps out after a minute, his tone brisk but not cold. "There's improvement. Minimal motor response. It could be involuntary, or it could mean her brain is trying to reconnect pathways."

"In English," Matteo says quickly. "What does that mean?"

The doctor gives the smallest, rarest smile. "It means she's not giving up yet."