INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – PRIVATE ROOM – AFTERNOON

The room is still.
Too still.

Sunlight filters weakly through the blinds, striping the wall in pale gold.

Link sits propped up in bed, laptop open on the tray in front of him.

His hospital bracelet rests stark against his wrist.
An IV line disappears beneath the blanket.
Quiet reminders he can’t escape.

Jo was called into an emergency C-section an hour ago.
There was no one else available.

The livestream loads.

MONICA BELTRAN’S MEMORIAL SERVICE.

A photo of Monica fills the screen — confident, smiling, alive.

Link’s jaw tightens.
He shifts slightly, as if to rise —
then stops.

His hand grips the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening,
before he lets go.

The service is beautiful.

Her parents speak.
Her brother.
Friends.
Colleagues. 
Former patients.

Stories of who she was. 
Who she mattered to. 
What she gave.

Link doesn’t blink.

On screen, faces grieve together.
Hands reach for one another.
People are held.

In the room, he is alone.

The reflection of the service flickers faintly across the darkened screen — and with it, his own: pale, tired, immobile. Stuck.

A voice on the livestream breaks — just slightly.

That’s when Link closes the laptop.
He can’t go through with it.

The room goes quiet again.

He leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow.

Alone with the weight of the people who died while he lived—
and the fear of almost losing the people he loved the most.

His gaze drops to his wrist.
The hospital bracelet.
The IV line.

The quiet, terrifying realization settles in:
This could have been his funeral.

His eyes drift to the photos spread across the room —  Jo.  The kids.
He looks at them for a beat.

A single tear slips from the corner of his eye, tracing silently down his cheek.
He doesn’t wipe it away.

He doesn’t let it become more.
That’s all he allows.

Link closes his eyes and folds back inward.

FADE OUT.