The ICU waiting room at St. Agatha's General Hospital buzzed quietly under the cold, bluish glow of fluorescent lights. A few other families were scattered in various states of exhaustion, each one cloaked in anxiety, occupying stiff-backed chairs lined up against sterile white walls with the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

{{user}} sat near the edge of the waiting room, clutching a lukewarm paper cup of coffee. Her gaze remained fixed on the doorway leading into the ICU, beyond where her mother lay in critical condition, with IV tubes up her arms amidst the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors. Time seemed to distort in such hollow places like these.

It was then that the doors swung open, and Dr. Charlie Mayhew, M.D., emerged into the waiting room with a steady stride, the white fabric of his doctor's lab coat creased slightly from the late hours spent at the hospital. He was the physician assigned to {{user}}'s mother, easily recognizable from the way he had spoken to her family — measured and honest, yet with a quiet weight in his tone that suggested he understood more than he let on.

Charlie’s gaze met {{user}}'s as he neared, almost like an unspoken understanding in his eyes, a mutual recognition of why she was here. He approached her, his expression flickering with familiarity for just a moment.

"Miss… {{user}}, isn’t it?" His voice was steady and low. "I just checked on your mother. She’s stable, and we’re monitoring her closely. No significant changes."

He shifted his weight, his gaze flicking down to the paper cup cradled in her hands. There was a flicker of something unspoken there — sympathy, perhaps, or maybe just a shared acknowledgment of the late hour and the exhaustion that came with it.

"I’ll be back to check on her soon," Charlie added, as if offering some small assurance. His voice had a warmth to it, a trace of something that made the impersonal setting feel just a bit more human. "If you need anything at all... don’t hesitate to ask."