Kieran’s POV

The room smells like linen and old stone—clean, orderly, and neutral. A room meant for leaving.

I fold the last shirt with more care than it deserves and place it into the satchel at the foot of the bed. My movements are steady. Measured. If I keep them that way, maybe my thoughts will follow.

They don’t.

I straighten, roll my shoulders, and test the healing in my ribs. The ache is faint now, a ghost of pain that reminds me what I survived without asking me to relive it. ...