Ava sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, her eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of her father's chest. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile hospital room. She'd been there for hours, watching, waiting, hoping for some sign of improvement.
Charles Taylor, once a titan of industry, now lay frail and vulnerable in a hospital bed. His skin was pale, almost translucent, a stark contrast to the crisp white sheets.
Ava sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. "Why am I even here?" she muttered to herself. "It's not like you were ever there for me."
As if in response, Charles stirred slightly. Ava leaned forward, hope flaring briefly in her chest, but he remained unconscious.
A nurse entered, clipboard in hand. "How's he doing, Miss Taylor?"
Ava shrugged. "No change. Is that good or bad?"
