No silence. No peace. Just a thick, oppressive quiet between waves of shouting, weeping, and radios crackling outside. The room isn’t empty. It’s been repurposed. A makeshift morgue.

Robby’s in the corner. On the floor. Knees pulled tight to his chest. His scrubs are soaked through, dried in places, fresh in others. His head is down, lips moving. Whispering a prayer in Hebrew under his breath, barely loud enough to catch.

He doesn’t notice her at first. Doesn’t move when the door opens or when she steps inside.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just sees him—curled in on himself, grief pooling around him like blood on tile—and walks to him slowly.

She crouches down, sits with him, takes his trembling hands into hers. They’re sticky and cold, but she doesn’t flinch.

He keeps whispering.

And softly, unsure, she begins to repeat after him.

The words stumble off her tongue, unfamiliar and reverent. He corrects her quietly, gently. Doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until their voices are overlapping.

They aren’t praying for healing.

Not even hope.

Just for someone to witness the weight.