By some miracle, Edwin's fever dwindled.

Mark was spent. He didn't even summon the energy for a shower, drifting to sleep precariously at the bed's edge.

Dawn peeked in.

The rain had bid its farewell, and the city seemed renewed in its wake.

In the hush of the children's room, the father and son's breathing melded in harmony.

Stirring to consciousness, Edwin studied the figure beside him.

Mark's rhythmic breathing signaled slumber.

Close as they were, Edwin could discern the shadow of new growth on his father's face.

Mark lay still, a testament to his exhaustion.

A realization dawned on Edwin. Had his father kept vigil all night?

His lips pressed together in contemplation. Though lingering resentment resided, for now, he cast it aside, his heart softening towards Mark.

Edwin's fingers brushed against Mark's hand.

The sudden heat startled him.

Alarmed, Edwin noted the fevered flush on Mark's face.

His intention to call the servant halted as the door swung open.

Cecilia's voice echoed with concern.

“How's Edwin? Is Mark still here?"

As the servant stirred a pot of light yet nutritious soup, she chimed in, "The boy's fever broke. Mr. Evans has been by his side all night. Last night's rain was fierce, and I noticed he had a cut on his forehead."

Cecilia hastened inside.

Edwin, though wan, looked rejuvenated.