Rowan hadn't been back to his apartment in three days. Most nights, he drifted between hospital stairwells and quiet corners of the staff wing, letting the mechanical hum of Westbridge drown out the thoughts that refused to rest. But tonight was different. He wasn't looking for peace. He was looking for something buried something that had started whispering again the moment Nora had looked at him like she already knew.
He stepped into the apartment without turning on the lights. The silence was familiar, thick with old dust and unopened memories. He crossed to the shelf beside the desk, where rows of untouched photo albums sagged with time. His fingers landed on the one he hadn't touched in years: green leather, worn at the spine, the one that used to belong to his mother.
He sat on the floor, cross-legged like a boy searching for pieces of a lost puzzle. Page by page, moments passed birthday cakes, lake trips, early shifts in crisp white coats. And then it appeared. Tucked behind another photo. A hallway. A girl.
Lily.
Sixteen. Pale but smiling. Brave in a way only the dying knew how to be. And in the blurred background, almost invisible, stood a child watching from the edge of the frame.
Nora.
He stared for a long time. The shape of her jaw. The stillness of her posture. He didn't need to question it. It was her.
All this time, she hadn't just known about Lily.
She had loved her.
He didn't hesitate. He tucked the photo into his coat pocket and left. Some truths had to be faced in the quiet, and he knew exactly where she would be.
He found her outside, near the edge of the hospital garden, sitting on a low bench wrapped in her coat. The air was cold, sharp against his skin, but she didn't shiver. She looked up at the stars like she could find answers hidden in their distance.
"You weren't answering," he said softly.
"I needed the silence," Nora replied, eyes still skyward.
He stood beside her for a moment, then slowly sat down, careful not to intrude. "I found a photo."
She didn't react at first. But he saw the way her hands tensed in her sleeves.
"I didn't mean to go looking. But I did." He paused. "You were there, Nora."
She nodded, barely. "I always have been."
Rowan turned toward her. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because it wasn't about you," she said. "Or anyone else. It was mine. Mine to keep, mine to carry."
He listened.
"I was just a kid. Eight years old, stuck in a hospital more than I was in school. My sister was dying, and no one could say it out loud, but we both knew. Every night, she'd hum songs, tell stories, draw stars on the ceiling with a flashlight like we were under constellations we made up just to forget where we were."
Her voice cracked. Just once.
"When she died, they gave me her pillow. That's all. A nurse told me to be strong. That's what everyone says to kids who lose everything."
Rowan looked down. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want sorry," Nora replied. "I want justice. I want someone to answer for the choices that led to her last breath. And I want to know why no one ever asked the right questions."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo. Handed it to her gently, as if afraid it might shatter.
"She was radiant," he said.
Nora took the photo, holding it like something sacred. "She was everything."
The night deepened around them, but neither moved. Time slowed until the silence between them softened into understanding.
Rowan leaned forward slightly. "Do you remember the day she laughed so hard she dropped her water on the nurse?"
Nora smiled faintly. "Yeah. She said it was the first time she'd felt like herself in weeks."
"I was there," he said. "I was doing observation hours. I remember her voice. I remember thinking she didn't belong in a place like this."
"She didn't," Nora said. "But she made it her own. For me."
There was a pause. Then Rowan spoke again. "They're trying to erase her, Nora."
She looked at him now. Directly. "I know."
"They scrubbed the files. Locked them under fake credentials. The name 'Cardinal' someone's using it to rewrite everything."
"Then we expose them," she said. "All of them."
Rowan nodded. "It won't be easy."
"It doesn't have to be easy," she answered. "It just has to be true."
For a long while, neither of them moved. Then Nora stood, slipping the photo into her coat.
"I'm going back to pediatrics tonight," she said. "I need to see it again. Room 411."
"I'll come with you."
"No," she replied. "Not yet."
He didn't argue. He watched her go, coat trailing like a shadow.
Inside, she walked through the darkened corridors until she reached the old wing. Most of it had been shut down. But Room 411 remained untouched. She pushed open the door, letting the stale air hit her lungs.
It was empty.
No machines. No bedsheets. Just faded outlines on the walls where Lily's stars used to be. Nora stepped inside and sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
The past wasn't haunting her anymore.
It was calling her forward.
She stayed there for an hour. In silence. In memory.
When she finally rose and stepped back into the hallway, the first thing she saw was Rowan waiting at the end of the corridor. Not speaking. Not pushing. Just there.
She walked toward him.
He held out a file. "There's more. A list of interns who rotated under Brenner. Some of the names aren't in the database anymore. Someone wiped them."
Her hand brushed his as she took the folder.
She didn't flinch.
And that was the difference.
Not between past and present.
But between who she had been…
And who she was becoming.