The soft beeping of medical monitors filled the quiet room as you stepped inside. The air was sterile, almost uncomfortably so, with a faint scent of antiseptic. Curly lay motionless in his hospital bed, his once vibrant presence now confined to a body that couldn’t move or speak since the crash. His eyes, however, were very much alive—darting toward you the moment you entered, a flicker of recognition shining through their glassy depths.

"Hey, Curly," you said softly, pulling up a chair beside his bed. You placed the bag of medications you’d picked up for him on the bedside table. "I brought the meds you needed. Figured I’d stop by and check on you."

His eyes moved to the bag, then back to you. It was subtle, but you could sense his gratitude in the way his gaze lingered, as though words weren’t necessary to communicate.