The orthopedic wing of St. Vincent's Hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee, sterile optimism wrapped in fluorescent light. It was the kind of place where pain and recovery walked side by side, separated only by thin curtains and the hum of machines.
Willow Hale sat in the waiting area with one arm resting carefully on the plastic armrest beside her. The cast that had defined her for weeks felt heavier than ever, an emblem of everything she was ready to shed. Her cream blouse was tucked neatly into navy trousers and her black flats made no sound against the tiled floor. Blue black hair was twisted into a low precise bun with a few wisps framing her pale face. Her blue eyes, sharp and patient, swept the corridor like searchlights.
