The house feels different on the second morning, not fragile and not cautious, but awake in a way that feels deliberate. Sunlight spills across the bedroom floor in long, confident bands, warming the walls and catching on the edge of the dresser. Willow stands near the window with the cane resting lightly against her thigh, her fingers curled around its handle more out of habit than necessity in that moment. The neighborhood beyond the glass looks unchanged. The same trees sway gently in the breeze. The same quiet street curves toward the park. A car passes slowly, ordinary and unremarkable. The world continued while she lay beneath fluorescent lights and counted pain in measured breaths, and seeing that continuity does not anger her. It steadies her.
Four days.
Four days until the wedding.
