“Marisol,” he murmured, the word soft and slightly uneven.
She paused. For a heartbeat, she almost turned back. She knew if she saw his face again, she wouldn’t have the strength to go. Instead, she curled her fingers inside her faded yellow gloves until the rubber tightened against her skin.
“Keep breathing,” she said quietly, without looking at him. “That counts as walking too.”
Daniel Whitaker stood frozen, his son pressed against his chest, watching the woman cross the garden along the straight stone path he had once insisted be built with perfect symmetry. In that moment, the lines felt ridiculous—proof of how desperately he had tried to control what could never truly be controlled.
The door closed behind her.
That night, the house didn’t settle back into its usual order. Daniel sat on the edge of Gabriel’s bed long after the boy had fallen asleep. There were no nightmares, no sudden cries. Just a heavy, unfamiliar exhaustion. Gabriel’s body had done something extraordinary. Daniel’s mind hadn’t caught up.