Page 53 of The Shape of my Scar
A clear bag of fluid hung beside her, dripping steadily into the narrow line that disappeared into the back of her hand.
Careful not to disturb anything, he reached out. His gloved fingers brushed her palm, then gently settled there.
He traced the delicate lines in her skin with reverence.
The man who no longer believed in God—who had lost faith the same year he lost everything as a boy—prayed. Not with words, but with everything in him.
Let her come back. Please, let her come back to me.
The nurse stood at the door, giving him a minute more. Then she stepped in, and gently said, “It’s time.”
He nodded, jerkily.
As he turned, a tear slipped from the corner of his eye, soaking into the edge of his paper mask.
“She had contacts in,” he murmured, half to himself.
“Yes,” the nurse said. “We took it out. There was only one.”
He nodded and quietly left.
Cormac was already on his feet. He didn’t look at Thane as he passed, just walked straight in.
Thane stood outside, trying to breathe through the constriction in his throat.
Callum moved beside him, silent for a long time.
“Thank you,” Thane said, his voice raw.
“I’m not doing it for you,” Callum said, not looking at him. “I’m doing it for her.”
Thane nodded. He expected that.
“She talked about you,” Callum said, eyes fixed on the glass door. “Sometimes she called your name in her sleep.”
He took a slow breath. “You mean something to her. I don’t think she’s ever felt anything like that for anyone.” He finally glanced over. “I hope—for her sake—that you’re someone worth forgiving. And for yours…I hope you never stop trying to earn it.”
Thane couldn’t speak.
He just stood there, shoulders heavy, watching the pale blur of her through the glass, and silently promised her everything he had left.
Chapter 26
The sliding door sighed shut behind Cormac, muffling the hum of the machines and the muted voices beyond the glass. But nothing prepared him for what he was about to see.
And there she was.
So small.
Paler than he remembered, almost translucent against the sterile white sheets. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside her, a cruel stand-in for her lungs. Tubes disappeared into her arms and chest, wires like lifelines but none of them could guarantee anything.
Cormac walked closer. Each step felt like it belonged in a dream, or a memory.
He reached out, his big, rough hand finding hers—thin, cold, motionless. Her fingers didn’t curl back, didn’t stir at all. Her hair was still the unfamiliar brown she had to colour it for the mission. She looked like Faolan but also not like her.
Both their hands bore scars, only his were on the outside. Hers were buried deep where no one could see.
His throat clenched, and in his mind, unbidden, the past came rushing in.
