The days following Lucson's departure settled into a rhythm of eerie, suffocating stillness. Dr. Soren Morrison, usually a constant presence, began to fade into the periphery. He still appeared for the daily dressing changes—his touch as precise and cold as ever—but the hours of surveillance were gone. He seemed distracted, his brow perpetually furrowed, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak door as if he were listening for a sound only he could hear.
Mailah used the solitude to rebuild. She didn't have the strength to reclaim her old life, so she focused on the mechanics of her current one. She paced the perimeter of the room, counting the floorboards, measuring the distance from the bed to the window, and testing the limits of her healing leg. It was still a dull, persistent ache, a reminder of the fragility of her frame, but she was finding ways to endure the pain rather than be defined by it.
