Nathan woke to the smell of mildly burnt bread and the persistent, deep-tissue ache of freshly fused ribs.
The apartment was quiet. Lucy had already left for school, her oversized backpack gone from its usual hook by the door. A folded sheet of notebook paper rested against the toaster on the kitchen counter, its surface covered in her neat, looping handwriting.
Toast's in the kitchen. Don't die today. —Luce
Nathan couldn't help but smile, even if the movement tugged at his still-healing chest.
Some things, at least, never changed.
