The orthopedic wing of St. Vincent's Hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee—sterile optimism wrapped in fluorescent light. The kind of place where pain and recovery walked side by side, separated only by thin curtains and the hum of machines.
Willow Hale sat in the waiting area, one arm resting carefully on the plastic armrest beside her. The cast that had defined her for weeks felt heavier than ever—an emblem of everything she was ready to shed. Her cream blouse tucked neatly into navy trousers; black flats made no sound against the tiled floor. Raven hair twisted into a low, precise bun, a few wisps framing her pale face. Green-gold eyes—sharp, patient—swept the corridor like searchlights.
Beside her, Cindy from IT: chatty, efficient, loyal in the way of people who admire competence. She'd insisted on driving, claiming Willow shouldn't risk it with one arm still half-useless.
Willow hadn't argued. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
