70

Carlos stirred awake on the couch, blinking against the soft morning light that filtered through the small window. His body was stiff from the awkward sleeping position, and his side throbbed where the bandages clung to his skin. As he shifted to sit up, he realized Edith was already awake, sitting quietly in an armchair across from him, her hands resting on her lap, her gentle eyes studying him.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft, almost maternal.

Carlos blinked again, his thoughts groggy as he adjusted to the new reality of his surroundings. “Morning…” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. The events of the previous night came rushing back to him— the escape from the hospital, the train ride, the blood, and Edith’s unexpected kindness.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, her tone genuine, filled with concern.

Carlos stretched, wincing as the pain from his wound flared up again. “As well as I could, I guess. Thanks for… everything,” he said, glancing down at the fresh banda
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