By the time Ronda returned to the firm, she knew something in her had shifted permanently.
Not broken.
Not healed either.
Shifted.
Hospital nights had a way of stripping life down to its bluntest truths. The fluorescent lights, the hard chairs, the smell of medicine, the constant waiting; all of it pressed a person until only the most stubborn parts remained. In that kind of place, performance became too expensive. You learned quickly what mattered, what hurt, and what no longer deserved the same power over your breathing.
So when she stepped through the gate that Monday morning after two nights of divided sleep, family calls, pharmacy receipts, and old emotions reopening in strange order, the firm no longer felt like the largest thing in her world.
It still mattered.
Her work still
