Scarlett’s first day outside the recovery wing does not feel like freedom.
It feels like preparation.
The corridor beyond the glass doors is wider than she expects, curved and deliberately softened in design, but her body reacts anyway—muscles tightening, breath adjusting, awareness stretching outward to map exits, reflections, blind spots. She moves slowly, barefoot against the cool floor, refusing assistance even as Ethan stays close enough to intervene without hovering.
Every step reminds her she is not whole yet.
Every step also reminds her she is still standing.
“That’s far enough for today,” the physician says gently, hovering near the doorway she’s just crossed.
Scarlett stops on her own terms, fingers flexing at her sides as a faint tremor ripples through her right hand. She
