They were still staring at Lemon.
Steve. Fiona. Tonya. All of them. Their eyes hadn't moved—not since he spoke.
A strange hush had fallen over the room, heavy and expectant, as though the air itself was holding its breath.
Steve took a slow, deliberate step forward. His voice was calm, but there was something gentle in it—something that sounded almost like mercy.
"Lemon," he said, "can you tell us what happened?"
But Lemon didn't answer.
His eyes were shut. His breathing soft. Asleep.
The silence lingered for a few heartbeats too long—until someone stirred beside him.
His mother.
She moved, barely, and that tiny shift seemed to break something loose in him. Lemon inhaled sharply and pulled away from Tonya's warm hold with trembling hands.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking like dry leaves in autumn. "I'm sorry."
