Recovery was harder than survival.
Arianna realised that on the first morning she was allowed to sit up without assistance.
Pain still lingered like an unwelcome guest inside her body. Every breath reminded her of the bullet that had nearly ended her life. Every movement required effort. Even laughter — something she was slowly rediscovering — felt fragile.
But she was alive.
And she was not alone.
Alexander had moved a chair permanently beside her hospital bed. He worked from there, slept there, argued with healers there. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night to find him watching her with an intensity that made her chest ache.
“You should rest,” she told him one evening.
He shook his head.
“I will rest when you are home.”
The word home warmed her more than the thick blank
