He looked at the carbon-fiber brace, then at the scar visible above her shoe.
“Some things were damaged badly,” he said.
“That’s true.
But damaged isn’t the same as finished.”
Arya looked away.
For the next month, improvement came so slowly that Celeste almost missed it.
Then one afternoon she realized Arya had crossed the therapy room without asking where the nearest chair was.
She still used both crutches.
She still wore the brace.
But she had stopped scanning for escape routes.
Another month passed.
Her physician reduced one support during controlled sessions.
Then another.
There were setbacks.
One Tuesday Arya’s leg buckled during supported training, and the old terror returned so violently that she refused to continue.
She sat on the floor, shaking with rage.
“This is stupid.”
Celeste rushed toward her.
Rowan held up one hand, not touching either of them.
“She’s allowed to be angry.”
Arya ripped at the strap of her brace.
“I knew it.
I knew this would happen.”
“What happened?” Rowan asked.
“I fell.”
“No.
The harness caught you.
Your leg buckled.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to your nervous system.”
She glared at him through tears.
“Stop talking like you understand.”
For the first time, Rowan’s expression hardened.
“I understand enough to know you just turned one bad second into a prophecy.”
Arya flinched.
Celeste stepped between them.
“That’s enough.”
Rowan nodded.
He picked up his jacket and left.
For six days, Arya did not ask him back.
On the seventh, she appeared at the workshop with Celeste.
Rowan was beneath an old pickup truck.
He rolled out and stared at them.
Arya held one crutch instead of two.
“You were rude,” she said.
“I was.”
“You could’ve apologized.”
“I figured you’d call if you wanted one.”
“I want one.”
“I’m sorry.”
Arya nodded toward the open strip of concrete beside the workbench.
“Put the rag down.”
Rowan’s face changed.
He retrieved the same red rag from his toolbox, folded it, and placed it on the floor.
Celeste watched from several feet away.
Arya planted the single crutch.
