Maribel stood barefoot on the floor, her uniform replaced by a simple flowing skirt, her posture calm and grounded.
And Lydia was no longer seated.
She knelt on the floor, her small hands gripping Maribel’s forearms, her face alive with effort and something Philip had almost forgotten how to recognize.
Happiness.
Lydia laughed, a bright sound that cut through the room, and Philip’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
“Again,” Lydia said softly, her voice thin but unmistakably real.
Philip staggered forward, one hand gripping the doorframe.
Maribel smiled, tears shining in her eyes. “That is right. Listen to your body. It remembers.”
Lydia pressed her feet into the floor. Her legs trembled violently, muscles long unused fighting the command. Slowly, impossibly, she rose.
She stood. No braces. No supports. Only her own effort and Maribel’s steady presence.
Philip dropped to his knees. “Lydia,” he whispered.
She turned toward him, eyes wide with recognition. “Papa.”
The moment shattered him.
Maribel gasped when she noticed him. “Sir, I am sorry. I should have asked. Please do not be angry.”