Page 57 of Shadows of Recovery

Sophie’s breath hitched, her mind racing as she tried to process his words. “My face…?”

“There were fractures,” Tristan confirmed in an even and measured tone. “But the doctors fixed them. You’ll heal, Sophie.”

She nodded slowly, feeling the bandages on her abdomen again, a deeper concern rising in her chest. “And… my stomach? Why…?”

Tristan hesitated for the briefest moment, then answered, “Your spleen was ruptured. They had to remove it.”

Sophie closed her eyes, the reality of the situation sinking in. “So, I don’t have a spleen anymore?”

“No,” his grip on her hand tightened slightly, “but you can live without it.”

She opened her eyes, searching his face for any sign of doubt or fear. But all she saw was calm resolve, a quiet determination that steadied her own wavering heart. She nodded, the simple, direct answers grounding her in the moment.

She took a deep breath, feeling the pain but also the strength in Tristan’s presence beside her. “Thank you.” Her gratitude for his honesty and his unwavering support filled her heart.

“Always,” Tristan replied. “I’m right here with you, Sophie.”

* * *

One afternoon,as he read a favorite book aloud, Sophie interrupted him, “Tristan, can you tell me what happened? I need to know.”

Tristan paused, his heart aching for her. “Do you remember Damon Whitlock?”

Her brows furrowed. “The bar.”

“He and his men attacked the hospital. But law enforcement is going to make sure they pay for it.”

Sophie nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I remember bits and pieces. It’s all so jumbled.”

“It’s okay,” Tristan said softly. “Take your time. The memories will come.”

Sophie looked at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and love. “Do I want to remember?”

Tristan swallowed hard, leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I love you, Sophie.” He was grateful she didn’t flinch from his touch.

* * *

The night was still,the quiet enveloping Sophie like a thick, suffocating blanket. The soft, silvery glow of the moon filtered through the window, casting a gentle light across the sterile walls of her hospital room. The silence was almost too much to bear, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of fear and pain swirling inside her. She could feel Tristan's presence beside her, a steady anchor in her life.

She stirred, the discomfort pulling her from the thin veil of sleep she had managed to grasp. Her eyes fluttered open, and there he was, just as he had been every other night. His eyes were soft and tired, watching her with a mixture of concern and an unfathomable depth of care. For a fleeting moment, she felt a flicker of relief. He was here. He was real.

But then, like a dark cloud sweeping across the sky, the memories—or, rather, the gaps where memories should have been—came rushing back. A sense of dread washed over her, and the tears began to well up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Tristan noticed immediately. He always did. The pain in his eyes mirrored the ache in her heart. She didn’t need to say it, but the words came out anyway, small and broken. “Tristan… I don’t remember… I can’t remember what happened.”

The fear of the unknown, the terror of what her mind refused to reveal, was almost too much to bear. She saw it in his face too—the knowledge of what she had endured. Even in her fog of uncertainty, she knew he carried that burden too.

Without a word, he lowered the bed rail and moved to sit beside her. The moment his arms wrapped around her, she collapsed against him, her body trembling with the force of her silent sobs. She clung to him, needing his warmth, his strength, as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling apart entirely.

"It's okay, Sophie," he murmured into her hair, his voice a balm to her shattered nerves. But nothing felt okay. The fear grew louder with each passing second.

Her voice cracked as she finally let the words escape. “I don’t know what to do, Tristan. I’m so scared. And I can’t remember why.”

His hold on her tightened, a protective cocoon against the storm raging in her mind. “I know it’s hard. The memories will come on their own.”

It was the same thing she had heard him say to others countless times before, but it felt different now. He wasn’t just saying it to a patient. He was saying it to her, and that made all the difference.

She buried her face in his chest, the fabric of his shirt growing damp with her tears. “But what if I never get better? What if I’m always this scared?”

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