Estelle’s heart hammered against her ribs, frantic and unsteady, as the surgeon reached for the reflex hammer again. The faint clink of metal against the tray rang louder than it should have in the tense room.

Please, let it be real. The prayer echoed quietly in her mind as she fixed her gaze on him.

For a moment, even the air seemed to leave the room as the surgeon moved to the foot of the bed, his expression sharpened with focus.

He didn’t speak. No one did. The soft hum of machines and the steady beeping of the monitor filled the silence, each sound stretching thin with anticipation.

He tapped the underside of her left foot again, then he looked up. Estelle shook her head, her breath coming quicker now, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. The wait between action and answer felt unbearable.

Across the room, Vance shifted. His hands, once neatly clasped, came apart as he leaned forward slightly, his attention fixed on the smallest movement.

The surgeon adjusted his grip and tapped again. Once, then twice, and Estelle’s eyes widened.

"Wait—" Her breath hitched sharply. "There... there’s something." She swallowed, her voice trembling with urgency. "It’s faint, but it’s there."

The surgeon didn’t stop. He tapped again, calm and precise. This time, she nodded quickly.

"Yes! I feel it."

The surgeon reached for his stethoscope and placed it gently against the underside of her foot, listening, concentrating. After a moment, he gave a small, confirming nod. "There’s a delayed response," he said. "Faint, but it’s there."

Relief broke through Estelle’s chest in a sharp exhale. Her body sagged slightly against the bed as the tension loosened, just enough to let hope slip in.

"I still feel it," she said, her eyes glistening now, tears gathering but not falling.

The surgeon allowed himself a small nod before straightening. "Let’s check the other foot," he murmured. He shifted position and tapped along a different part of her right foot, slower this time, testing each point carefully.

Estelle focused, willing herself to feel something, anything. But there was nothing. No spark, no delay, just emptiness. Her lips parted slightly.

"I can’t feel anything there," she admitted softly, disappointment threading through her voice.

The room dipped again, that fragile hope flickering.

"What does that mean?" Vance’s voice cut in from the corner, calm but edged with something sharper. "Will that leg ever be useful?"

Estelle glanced at him briefly, then looked back at the surgeon, her gaze searching, almost pleading. "Please," she said quietly. "Just tell me."

The surgeon studied her legs for a moment, his fingers hovering as if mapping what he could not yet see. Then, slowly, a small smile broke through his earlier tension.

"There’s hope," he said. The words landed gently, but firmly.

Estelle released a breath of relief. But the surgeon’s smile didn’t last.

He turned toward Vance, his expression tightening again, urgency creeping back in. "This is a good sign," he continued. "A very good sign. But we don’t have the luxury of time. She needs to begin physiotherapy immediately."

Estelle’s gaze shifted to Vance, and her shoulders dropped slightly. His face was composed, and it didn’t reflect the urgency in the surgeon’s tone, and something about that made unease curl low in her stomach.

"There’s a rehabilitation center in the heart of town," the surgeon went on, already turning toward a nurse. "I need something to write the address down. I trust their team; they’re excellent. If we move quickly, there’s a real chance her nerves could regain function within two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Estelle echoed, her voice barely steady.

The nurse hurried to fetch something, the quiet shuffle of her steps echoing faintly across the tiled floor. But Estelle’s eyes did not leave Vance.

The scratch of a pen against paper filled the room as the surgeon bent over the small pad, jotting down the address. The faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and clean, clinging to every breath.

Vance stood a few steps away, his chin slightly lifted, his eyes narrowed as he watched. There was no impatience in his posture, only quiet control.

On the bed, Estelle’s gaze flicked between them, her pulse drumming hard beneath her skin. The hope that had flared moments ago was already beginning to twist into something tighter, heavier.

The surgeon finished writing and tore the slip free, extending it toward Vance.

But Vance didn’t move. "She is not leaving the estate," he said, his tone was calm, flat, but final.

The words settled heavily in the room.

"At least call Magnus and get his opinion," Estelle said quickly, her voice edged with urgency as she looked at him.

Vance didn’t even glance her way. "If you can recommend the best therapists you know, let me know," he said to the surgeon instead. "We’ll decide which one we want."

The surgeon hesitated, the note still held out between his fingers. "Recovery like this," he began slowly, choosing his words, "it shouldn’t be handled in isolation. They can’t bring all the necessary equipment here, and time is critical. We need to build on what we’ve just seen."

Vance shifted his stance slightly, his gaze dropping to Estelle’s legs, never her face. "If something is needed, it will be arranged. Anywhere." A brief pause. "This will be no different. Just give me your recommendation, and your job here is done."

Estelle shook her head, a flicker of frustration breaking through. "This isn’t right," she said, her voice tightening. "He knows best. Just call Magnus."

"Be quiet and let me speak to the surgeon," Vance cut in, his tone sharpening just enough to still the air. Then, without looking at her, he added, "Give her something to help her rest. She looks stressed."

Estelle’s fingers curled tighter into the sheets as she felt her heart stop in her chest. "No! Please!" she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I won’t interfere anymore. I promise." Her fingers curled slightly against the sheet, the fabric cool beneath her skin as her heart pounded harder.

The surgeon exhaled, a hint of reluctance in the sound. "I know someone," he said quickly, glancing between them. "A specialist. He’s excellent. He can handle this perfectly." He reached into his briefcase. "I have his card."

Vance finally looked at Estelle, just once, before turning back to the surgeon. "Good," he said. "Let’s step outside and discuss." They moved toward the door, their footsteps soft against the floor.

Estelle watched them go, her chest tightening. "Thank you!" she called out, her voice louder than she intended, hope pushing through before she could stop it.

The surgeon paused at the door and glanced back at her. He gave a small shake of his head, his expression measured. "Don’t thank me yet," he said. "The road ahead is still long, and we don’t know the outcome for the other leg."

Then he stepped out, and the door closed with a quiet click, sealing the room in sudden stillness.

For a moment, Estelle just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the machines filling the silence again. Then she let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Her gaze drifted downward, settling on her legs beneath the thin hospital sheet. "That tingle," she whispered, her voice softer now. "It’s all the hope I need."

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric. "So I can’t afford to lose it."