Scarlett learns quickly that survival is louder after the war.
Not in sound, but in intrusion.
Her body heals in increments, the medical team insists on measuring—reflex response, pupil dilation, neural latency—but her mind refuses to move in such neat, obedient patterns. Thought comes in waves now. Some gentle. Some sharp enough to draw breath from her lungs like a physical blow.
The room is quiet when it happens for the first time.
She is awake, eyes open, counting the faint seams in the ceiling panels because stillness feels safer when it is organised. Ethan is asleep in the chair beside her bed, head tipped back, one arm folded awkwardly across his chest. He hasn’t left. Not once. Even when someone tried to insist he should.
Scarlett turns her head slowly.
For a moment, she isn’t
