Two days passed.
The little girl hadn't opened her eyes once. Her body remained frail and still, laid on a simple cot in the herbalist's house. The villagers took turns watching over her day and night—changing bandages, wiping her sweat, helping her sip water when her lips barely parted.
Dylan had stayed almost the entire time.
He only slept in short bursts, sitting on a chair too low for his back, elbows on knees, head tilted toward her. He didn't know why. He could have gone home. He had things to do. But… no.
He couldn't.
And that morning, just as a pale beam of sunlight slipped through the curtains, he finally saw movement.
A finger twitched.
Then her eyelids fluttered once. Twice.
Dylan straightened instantly, tension flooding his body, breath held.
The girl slowly opened her eyes.
Her gaze was blurry, lost, as if unsure whether she was still dreaming. She blinked again, staring at the ceiling. Then her head turned ever so slightly—and locked onto Dylan.
