Scarlet was discharged on a gray morning that smelled like rain and antiseptic. The nurse handed her a folder thick with instructions, appointments, and cautions. Scarlet nodded through it all, forming words slowly, carefully, like she was relearning a language she used to be fluent in.
Ward wheeled her out himself.
She hated the chair. Hated the way it announced her before she could speak, the way it turned every hallway into a reminder of what hadn’t come back yet. But she let him push it, his hands steady, his attention entirely on her like this was the most important thing he’d ever done.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” she said quietly once they were outside.
“I know,” Ward said without hesitation.
Scarlet stayed at Ward’s apartment because he insisted.
He framed it clinically
