It’s after midnight. The hospital’s quiet. You’re just passing through the west wing on your way out when you hear it— A short sound, choked, muffled. You pause. It’s coming from behind Addison’s closed office door. At first, you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — soft, quiet sobbing. You hesitate. She’s private, composed, always in control. But something about the sound makes your chest tighten. You raise your hand and knock — gently, just once. Then again. “Addison? It’s me. You okay?” Silence. Then: “Just— Just give me a minute.” You don’t leave. “I’ll wait,” you say.