A week later, I sat with Riley in the garden behind the medical building, watching her flinch at every sound. A bird taking flight. Footsteps on the path. The wind rustling through the trees.
I recognized every reaction. I'd lived them all.
"It gets easier," I said quietly, not looking directly at her. I'd learned that direct eye contact sometimes felt too intense, too confronting. "The jumpiness. The fear. It doesn't go away overnight, but it fades."
Riley's hands twisted in her lap. "Does it ever go away completely?"
I considered lying, offering false comfort. But she deserved the truth. "The memories don't disappear. But they lose their power over you. Eventually, you'll have more good days than bad ones."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost didn't hear: "He u
