Meera lay motionless as always. Her eyes were closed, her face pale and slack around the breathing tube taped to her mouth. She looked exactly as she had for three years, two months, and sixteen days. But her hand had moved. I was sure of it.

I pressed the call button, jamming my thumb into the red plastic until it hurt.

A nurse arrived within ninety seconds. It was Derek, the young guy with the kind eyes who usually worked the graveyard shift. He looked tired, his scrubs slightly wrinkled.

“Mr. Castiano?” he asked, stepping into the room. “Is everything okay?”

“She moved,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “She squeezed my hand. In Morse code.”

Derek gave me that look—the sympathetic, weary look that said he’d heard this a hundred times before from desperate family members seeing ghosts in the machinery.

“Mr. Castiano,” he said gently, moving to check the monitors. “Sometimes our minds play tricks on us when we’re tired. Muscle spasms are very common in long-term coma patients. It doesn’t mean conscious movement.”