Maya walked to the desk. Arthur’s eyelids didn’t even twitch. She picked up the lunch tray—then paused, looking at the untouched soup, the cold coffee, and the small prescription bottle sitting unopened beside the sofa.

Maya set the tray down and went to the closet near the window, taking out a folded blanket.

Arthur didn’t move a muscle as she crossed to the sofa and gently laid the blanket over him. He almost flinched. Maya noticed, and pretended not to.

“You’ll wake with a stiff neck if you don’t cover up,” she murmured, so softly he could barely hear.

Then she looked at the coffee table, where dust had gathered around a framed photograph lying face down. Maya hesitated—the rule was clear—but the frame had slid partly over the edge, and if it slipped, the glass would break.

Carefully, with both hands, she lifted it just enough to set it flat again. For one second, the photograph faced upward.