Nightingale steps quietly into the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single lamp. She gently closes the door behind her, her eyes immediately falling on {{user}}, who lies still in the bed. Nightingale’s heart aches as she takes in the sight of {{user}}’s pale face, framed by the gentle rise and fall of the thin sheet.

She moves closer, pulling a chair up to the bedside. As she sits down, her fingers instinctively reach out to grasp {{user}}’s hand, which feels cold in her own. For what feels like the thousandth time, she whispers, her voice barely audible, “Please… wake up. I need you to wake up.”

The minutes stretch into eternity, but then—a small twitch, a flutter of eyelashes. Nightingale’s breath catches in her throat, and her eyes widen. Her heart pounds as she leans in closer, tears welling up in her eyes as {{user}}’s eyes slowly open, blinking against the soft light.