The ER waiting room was a box of bright lights, bitter antiseptic, and unbearable waiting. Holly paced it endlessly, a wraith strung between hope and terror. Her boots echoed off sterile tile. The world outside had long since faded. All that existed now was this too-bright purgatory and the door behind which Ariel had vanished.

  Two hours.

  Two hours of not knowing, of her mind conjuring every worst possibility.

  Two hours since the medics had whisked Ariel away, disappearing into a blur of shouting staff and swinging doors. Every time she closed her eyes, Holly saw the gurney. Saw Ariel’s blue lips, her soot-blackened face, the way her hand had finally gone slack in Holly’s grip.

  Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She kept wringing them—twisting, knotting, nails digging into her own palms until it hurt—because it was the only thing that made her feel real. Every few minutes, she realized her sleeves were wet, and only then remembered she’d been rubbing tears from her cheeks again.

  She tried to sit, tried to hold still, but the waiting room spun around her like a cruel carousel. She’d perch on the edge of a plastic chair, heart pounding, and in seconds she’d be up again, pacing. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t outrun the memory of Ariel’s voice on the phone—panicked, breaking, pleading for help.

  Please let her be okay. Please. Please. Please.

  Fragments of prayer and regret spilled from her lips, half-whispered, half-sobbed. “I should’ve gone with her. Should’ve seen the smoke. If I’d been ten seconds faster—” The same desperate mantras looped over and over, as if sheer repetition could change the outcome.

  The lights above hummed with a relentless whine, the white walls glared, the air was thick with disinfectant and something metallic and sharp. Every minute warped into the next, stretched until time itself felt like punishment.

  No one came to her. No one even knew why she was there. She’d dropped the intake clipboard on the floor somewhere and never picked it up. No nurse had stopped her. She was just a girl in an ash-stained hoodie, pacing circles into the linoleum.

  A dozen times, she almost called someone—Jordan, her mom, anyone—but the thought of putting it into words, saying “Ariel’s in the hospital, I don’t know if she’ll live,” made her throat close up with panic. All she could do was pace, and wait, and relive that phone call.

  What if the last thing she remembers is being alone and terrified, screaming for me? What if she never wakes up? Holly’s chest ached with the force of it. She pressed her hands to her temples, scrubbing at the tears and the pain, but nothing would erase the memory.

  Still—nothing.

  No word.

  Just the hollow sound of her boots and the frantic mantra of her heart: Please, please, please.

  Across the room, an older woman watched her—quiet, patient, wrapped in a shawl the color of moss. She had seen Holly come in, a ghost of a girl, face streaked with soot and panic, and recognized the particular kind of suffering in her eyes.

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  Finally, she stood and crossed the room, her presence soft and steady. “Sweetheart?” she said, voice a gentle anchor.

  Holly froze. Her eyes found the woman’s, wide and brimming with panic, hope, and something lost. For a moment, she couldn’t speak—she wasn’t even sure she was allowed to cry, if she deserved that comfort.

  But the woman just opened her arms, patient and sure. Holly stared for a heartbeat longer—and then the dam inside her broke. She collapsed forward, sobs ripping free. The woman caught her, strong and sure, and held her through the storm.

  “I’ve got you,” she murmured, rocking Holly gently, the scent of lavender and ginger soothing as a lullaby. “Let it out, honey. Just let it out.”

  “I wasn’t—” Holly choked, voice jagged. “I wasn’t fast enough! She called for me, and I couldn’t get to her in time—”

  The woman just held her, slow circles on Holly’s back, her own cheek resting against tangled blonde hair. “You’re not alone. Whatever it is, you’re not alone.”

  Holly cried until her throat burned and her body shook, her tears soaking into the woman’s shawl. For the first time since the sirens, she let herself feel it all—the fear, the guilt, the love, the possibility that she might lose Ariel before she’d had a chance to really love her.

  When her sobs finally faded, Holly slumped in the chair beside the woman, hands still trembling, back hunched. They sat together in silence, the background hum of the ER rising and falling: the intercom’s soft static, phones ringing, rubber soles squeaking past on linoleum.

  The woman didn’t leave. She simply stayed beside her, a quiet fortress of presence. Holly breathed in lavender and ginger—Ariel’s favorite scents—and for a moment it was almost enough.

  Then the door swung open.

  A doctor entered—middle-aged, lined with the kind of exhaustion that comes from decades at the edge of life and death. His white coat caught the light. He scanned the room.

  “Is there a Violet here?”

  Holly’s head snapped up. Her stomach dropped. She lurched to her feet so quickly her chair scraped across the floor.

  “That’s me—” Her voice broke. “That’s me. I’m Violet. Well—Holly—she calls me Violet. Please, is she—?”

  The doctor held up a calming hand. His face was grave, but there was a warmth in his eyes—a quiet promise that he would not make her wait one second longer.

  “She’s stable,” he said. “It was close. We nearly lost her, more than once. But she’s holding on.”

  Holly’s knees nearly gave way. She held herself upright by force of will alone.

  “She was smart,” the doctor continued, gentler now. “She bundled herself in her jacket and gloves. That likely protected her from severe burns.” He hesitated—just a beat. “But the smoke inhalation was significant. Her lungs will take time to recover. She’ll need monitoring, rest. But she’s awake now. The first thing she did was ask for Violet.”

  That broke Holly all over again. Tears surged anew, hot and helpless, but this time they were threaded with relief and gratitude.

  “What room is she in?” she managed, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “214,” the doctor said, his hand briefly, reassuringly, on her shoulder. “She’s waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” Holly choked out. “Thank you so much.”

  She turned to the older woman—the stranger who had let her collapse and crumble. Their eyes met. Holly reached for her, squeezed her hand, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  The woman just smiled—a simple, sturdy kind of smile—and pressed Holly’s hand one more time.

  Holly walked through the automatic doors, the hospital’s chaos fading into a hush as she passed down the corridor. Each step was its own prayer. Her boots were soundless on the padded floor. The world narrowed to a single hope.

  She paused outside Room 214, her palm pressed flat to the cool door, letting herself breathe.

  She’s alive.

  She closed her eyes for one slow heartbeat, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and stepped inside.