Kieran got out of bed on the ninth day after he woke.
No alarms. No dramatic moment.
Just a quiet decision made while the room was still gray with morning.
His feet touched the floor slowly, carefully, as if he were testing whether the world would hold him. The marble was cold, grounding. He stood there for a long moment, breathing, letting the dull ache in his muscles remind him that he was alive, that his body still answered him.
He didn't remember getting hurt.
He didn't remember why his legs trembled like this.
But he remembered one thing with absolute clarity.
Matthew.
Kieran dressed himself without calling for help. The shirt buttoned wrong the first time, then right. His movements were a little clumsy, but he refused to let the nurse hovering by the door intervene. When he finally stepped into the hallway, dressed in soft gray and black, hair still damp from the shower, he looked almost unchanged.
Almost.
