Even if people had to lean closer to understand me.
Now?
My voice was a ghost.
My hearing unreliable.
My body permanently altered.
And sometimes that reality hits harder than the memories.
The jet leveled off smoothly after cruising through the dark sky.
The subtle shift in pressure pressed gently against my ears, a faint reminder that we were moving farther and farther awayfrom California—and from everything that had tried to destroy me.
Someone—Luca, I think—approached quietly and draped a soft blanket over my body.
The fabric smelled faintly clean, like it had been packed fresh for this flight.
I didn’t open my eyes.
I just adjusted slightly, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulders and letting the steady vibration of the engines sink into my bones.
The sound wasn’t loud.
It was consistent.
Rhythmic. Almost soothing.
My body, exhausted beyond reason, responded to that stability by slowly slipping toward uneasy sleep.
Hours later, the descent began.
I felt it before I understood it—the gentle tilt downward, the change in engine pitch, the subtle shift in gravity pulling my body forward slightly in the seat.
Through the small oval window, the darkness outside began to dissolve into faint streaks of light.
Then the wheels touched.
A soft bump. A smooth glide.
We had landed.
Somewhere on Long Island. A private strip.
The cabin lights brightened gradually, not abruptly, giving my eyes time to adjust.
Dario and Ethan were already at my side.
They moved in unison like they had rehearsed it.
“Easy,” Dario murmured as he carefully slipped his arm behind my back.
Ethan positioned himself on my other side.
They lifted me gently.
My legs barely responded at first.
