The clinic smelled the same. Antiseptic. Coffee. The faint anxiety of patients in waiting rooms.
Mira stood in the hallway outside her old office—now hers again—and tried to remember how to breathe.
She'd last worn scrubs months ago. Bed rest, emergency surgery, postpartum depression, rebuilding herself from scratch.
Now she was Dr. Whitmore again. Not just Mira. Not just Stella's struggling mother or Brielle's exhausted parent.
A doctor.
"Ready?" Dr. Reeves appeared beside her. "Your first patient is in Room 3. Forty-two-year-old male. Presenting with chronic back pain. Nothing complicated for your first day back."
"Thank you."
"Mira? You've got this. You're one of the best diagnosticians I've worked with. Time off doesn't change that."
She nodded. Took a breath.
