She almost smiled.
Her eyes drifted to the flowers on the table. White peonies and pale pink ranunculus—fat, soft blooms bursting open like they were showing off, petals layered so thick they looked edible.
Her favourites.
"You brought my peonies," she said. Softer now. The brightness in her voice catching on something tender. She reached for the bouquet, brought it close, buried her face in the petals.
"As always," Phei said.
She inhaled deeply. Smiled with her eyes closed.
"So fresh. Only you bring me the good ones, Phei. The nurses try, bless them—but they always pick the ones from the hospital gift shop that smell like nothing and die in two days. Yours always last. You're now my favourite."
He chuckled. "What's this? Wasn't I your favourite son this whole time? Or are you shopping for a better one?"
