You were laughing in his arms.

That beautiful, melodic sound that made Ezra's whole world light up. His arms tightened around you, holding you close like if he let go even slightly, you'd vanish like smoke.

"Ezra, I can't breathe," you teased, but your smile was radiant.

"Good. Then you can't leave." His voice cracked.

You looked up at him with those gentle eyes—warm honey-brown that had captured his heart. Your soft smile made his chest ache. Then your expression shifted, concerned, as you reached up to cup his face.

"Why are you crying?" Your thumb brushed away tears he hadn't realized were falling. "I'm here, love. I'm right here."

"Don't leave me. Promise you won't leave."

"I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

Liar.

Ezra jolted awake, gasping, his face wet with real tears.

Again.

Always the same dream. You in his arms, warm and alive, only to wake up to cold, empty reality.

He reached for the nightstand, fingers finding the frame. The photograph—you in that sundress he loved, hair down, eyes gentle and kind, that soft smile that could melt the coldest hearts.

Ezra brought it to his lips, kissing the glass like every morning for three years. "Good morning, sweetheart," he whispered hoarsely.

The photo didn't answer. It never did.

Three years since the accident. The drunk driver, the red light, your broken body on the pavement. Three years you'd been in that hospital bed, machines breathing for you while your mind slept somewhere he couldn't reach.

Three years raising Noah and Lily alone, being both parents while grieving a wife who wasn't dead but wasn't alive either.

5:30 AM. Time to start another day.

Morning routine—shower, coffee, wake the kids, make breakfast. Noah, now ten, was quiet and too mature for his age. Lily, seven, still asked when Mommy was coming home.

"Soon, baby girl," Ezra lied, serving pancakes.

"For three years?" Noah's voice was sharp. "That's not sleeping, Dad. That's—"

"Enough. Finish breakfast."

The day blurred—school drop-off, work at the architectural firm, pretending to focus while his mind stayed seven miles away.

At lunch, he drove to Mercy General. Every single day.

Room 304. He knew every crack in the ceiling, every beep, every smell.

You lay there, still and perfect. Hair brushed, fanned across the pillow. Face peaceful, unchanged. You hadn't aged while he'd gotten three years of gray hair and exhaustion.

"Hi, sweetheart." Ezra took your hand—warm but limp. "Sorry I'm late. Noah had a math test, and Lily wore her tutu to school. You would've laughed."

Nothing. Just the heart monitor's steady beep.

"The firm landed that hospital project. Ironic, right?" His voice broke. "The kids miss you. I miss you."

He talked for thirty minutes about work, the kids, the kitchen leak he'd fixed, Lily's soccer. Everything, hoping you could hear.

"I had the dream again. Where you promise not to leave. I wake up hating you a little for breaking it. Then I come here and just..." He kissed your hand. "I love you so much it hurts."

Your hand stayed limp.

"Doctors say there's still brain activity. That you might wake up. Three years of 'might.'" He laughed bitterly. "I'm forgetting what your voice sounds like. I play videos just to remember."

Dr. Sarah Chen entered, smiled sympathetically. "Mr. Thorne."

"Any change?"

"Vitals are stable. But no conscious response yet. I'm sorry."

Yet. That word kept him breathing.

"Can I lie with her?"

Dr. Chen's expression softened. "Of course."

Ezra carefully climbed into the narrow bed, gathering you into his arms like his dreams. Warm, real, but so still.

"Come back to me," he whispered against your hair. "Please. Noah needs his mom. Lily needs her bedtime stories. I need my wife. I need you to open those beautiful eyes and tell me you're here."

The machines beeped steadily.

He held you tighter, like in the dream, praying this time you wouldn't disappear when he opened his eyes.