The next morning arrived quietly.
No alarms.
No knocks.
No sudden voices.
Hilary woke to the sound of breathing that wasn't her own.
Slow.
Measured.
Careful.
She didn't open her eyes.
She counted.
One inhale.
One exhale.
He was still there.
Before she could ask, the ritual came—unchanged.
"Good morning," he said softly.
She waited.
"I am Gerard," he continued.
"Your husband."
A pause.
"I love you."
Her chest loosened just a little.
"Morning," she replied.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling hovered above her—flat, unfamiliar, harmless.
"Before we get up," she said quietly, "I want to try something."
Gerard didn't move.
"Tell me what you see," she continued.
He hesitated.
"Everything?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "But slowly. Like you're teaching someone how to walk."
Silence stretched for a moment.
Then—
"You're lying on your left side," he began.
"The blanket is tangled around your legs."
"Your hair is falling into your face."
Her fingers twitched.
"I'm going to move my hand," she said.
He watched carefully.
"You're lifting it now," he said. "Palm open."
She nodded.
"Where am I looking?" she asked.
"At the ceiling," he replied.
"But your eyes are unfocused. Like you're listening more than seeing."
She smiled faintly.
"That's accurate."
He exhaled quietly.
"If this becomes too much—"
"It won't," she interrupted. "Keep going."
He sat up slowly on the edge of the bed.
"I'm sitting now," he said.
"I'm about half a meter away from you."
"My shoulders are tense."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing."
Her lips curved.
"You already do," she said gently. "And I survive."
He relaxed a fraction.
"Okay," he said. "Then I'll keep talking."
He stood.
"The light from the window is hitting the floor first," he continued.
"Not your face."
"It's morning—cool, pale."
She swung her legs off the bed cautiously.
"Tell me where to put my feet," she asked.
"Down," he said calmly. "You're safe."
Her toes touched the floor.
Cold.
Solid.
"Three steps forward," he instructed.
"Then stop."
She obeyed.
Her heart hammered—not from fear, but from focus.
"There's a chair to your right," he said.
"You're close to the corner."
She extended a hand.
Her fingers brushed fabric.
Found it.
A small, triumphant breath escaped her.
"I did it," she murmured.
"You did," he confirmed.
They moved like that through the room.
Gerard never raised his voice.
Never rushed.
Never said *watch out* too late.
He described the world in fragments—
edges,
distances,
textures.
Hilary absorbed it all like a language she'd forgotten she knew how to learn.
In the bathroom, she paused.
"I hate mirrors," she admitted.
"I know," he said.
She turned anyway.
"What do you see?" she asked.
He swallowed.
"I see you standing very straight," he said carefully.
"Your hands are clenched."
"You look… determined."
She nodded.
"Good," she said. "I need to look like that."
They reached the kitchen.
The smell of coffee hit her first.
Home.
She leaned against the counter.
"This is where I almost lost it yesterday," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied.
"Tell me where you are," she asked.
"I'm standing across from you," he said.
"About a meter."
"My hands are in my pockets."
"Take them out," she instructed.
He did.
"Why?"
"Because I need to know where you are even when you're nervous," she replied.
He smiled faintly.
"Done."
She reached for the kettle.
Her hand trembled.
"Stop," he said immediately.
"You're reaching too far left."
She froze.
"Bring your hand back," he instructed gently.
"Down."
"Now forward."
She followed.
The kettle handle slid into her palm.
She let out a shaky laugh.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
They made breakfast together.
Not quickly.
Not perfectly.
But intentionally.
At the table, she rested her elbows and closed her eyes.
"This is exhausting," she admitted.
"Yes," he agreed. "But you're doing well."
"I almost hugged the wrong man yesterday," she said flatly.
He didn't flinch.
"I know."
"And you still think this will work?" she asked.
"I don't think," he replied. "I commit."
She breathed out slowly.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Anything."
"If I hesitate," she continued,
"don't grab me unless I fall."
He frowned slightly.
"Why?"
"Because I need to know when I'm choosing you," she said.
"Not when you're choosing for me."
Silence stretched.
Then—
"I promise," he said.
Later that afternoon, they tested it.
A controlled walk through the east wing.
No staff.
No mirrors.
Minimal noise.
Gerard walked half a step ahead.
He narrated everything.
"There's a window on your left."
"Turn slightly right."
"Two more steps."
She followed.
Her heart raced—but it didn't spiral.
At one point, she misjudged a turn.
Her shoulder brushed the wall.
She flinched.
He stopped instantly—but didn't touch her.
"Do you want help?" he asked.
She steadied herself.
"No," she said. "Just tell me where."
"You're close to the corner," he said.
"Shift your weight back."
"Good."
She corrected.
She laughed softly.
"I didn't break," she said.
"No," he agreed. "You didn't."
They reached the end of the corridor.
Hilary leaned against the railing.
Her legs felt like rubber.
"I don't know how long I can do this," she admitted.
Gerard stood beside her—close enough that she felt the warmth, but not touching.
"You don't have to know," he said.
"You just have to start every day."
She turned her head slightly.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Right here," he replied.
"Your shoulder is almost touching mine."
She tilted closer until it did.
She smiled.
"Okay," she said. "I'm ready to go back into the world."
That evening, they attended a small internal dinner.
No board.
No press.
Just senior staff.
Gerard whispered constantly.
"Glass in front of you."
"Chair behind."
"Someone approaching from your right."
Hilary nodded subtly each time.
She didn't panic.
Didn't freeze.
At one point, a man laughed too loudly nearby.
Her body tensed.
Gerard leaned closer.
"Not for you," he murmured.
"Conversation two tables away."
Her shoulders eased.
She finished her meal.
When they left, she exhaled deeply.
"I survived," she said.
"You did more than that," he replied. "You adapted."
In the elevator, she leaned against the wall.
"I hate that I need you like this," she admitted quietly.
He turned toward her.
"I hate that you think this makes you smaller," he said.
She frowned.
"Doesn't it?"
"No," he replied firmly.
"It makes you brave."
The elevator doors opened.
They stepped out together.
In the privacy of their room, Hilary finally let herself sag.
Gerard caught her reflexively—then stopped himself.
He remembered his promise.
She reached for him instead.
Wrapped her arms around his waist.
"This is me choosing you," she said softly.
He exhaled shakily.
"I know."
She pressed her cheek against his chest.
"Don't stop talking to me," she whispered.
"Even when I don't answer."
"I won't," he promised.
"I'll tell you where the world is until you see it again."
Her throat tightened.
"And if I never do?"
"Then I'll keep telling you," he said.
"As long as it takes."
She smiled, eyes closed.
Outside their room, down the hall, Bianca paused.
She heard the murmur of voices through the door.
Not panic.
Not chaos.
Guidance.
Consistency.
Bianca's fingers curled slowly.
Interesting, she thought.
Then I'll have to be louder.