Two months earlier, Isabella’s world had quietly collapsed. Her father, Frank, had been diagnosed with lung cancer—already advanced, already cruel, the kind of diagnosis that doctors delivered with lowered voices and carefully chosen words that still managed to cut deep. There was talk of treatment, of comfort, but little room for hope. Bella was shattered. Frank wasn’t just her father; he was everything she had. There was no mother to call, no siblings to lean on. It had always been the two of them against the world, and now that world felt unbearably empty and frighteningly fragile. Frank had been admitted to a hospital in London where, at least, he was receiving attentive care. One of the doctors responsible for him was Damon Albarn—quiet, observant, the kind of man who carried exhaustion in his eyes but never let it reach his patients. Early that morning, while the city outside was still half-asleep under a grey May sky, Albarn walked down the corridor toward Frank’s room, clipboard tucked under his arm. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. When he gently opened the door, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the machines or the slow, steady beeping—it was Isabella. She was asleep on the small sofa beside the stretcher, her body curled in on itself, instinctively trying to escape the cold air that hummed through the room. It was clearly not meant for sleeping; narrow, stiff, unforgiving—certainly the kind of place that would leave her back aching when she woke. She must have been there all night. Probably many nights. And yet, despite the discomfort, her face was calm. Peaceful, even. A few strands of her pale blonde hair had fallen loose, brushing over her closed eyes, and her lips—soft and pink—were slightly parted as she breathed slowly, quietly. In that fragile stillness, she looked younger than she was. Tired. Devoted. Someone who refused to leave, no matter how heavy the waiting became.