The sun was bright but not harsh, casting a golden glow on the streets as Lyla stepped out of the house for the first time since her accident. The fresh air filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital scent she had been surrounded by for days.
She needed this.
After weeks of confinement, after countless worried faces and careful words from her family, she wanted to feel normal again—even if only for a while.
Noah had been reluctant to let her go alone, but she had insisted. She wasn't fragile. She wasn't broken. She was just… lost.
Walking down the street, she took in the sights—the small bookstore on the corner, the children laughing as they played near the park, the soft hum of life moving forward. Even if she felt stuck in the past, the world hadn't stopped.
As she strolled along the quiet path leading to a small café, her fingers traced the rim of her scarf. A habit she didn't even know she had. Did she always do this when she was thinking?
