By mid-afternoon, the hospital had settled into its usual rhythm—monitors humming, footsteps echoing down tiled corridors, the smell of antiseptic mixing with coffee from the break room. Estelle was at the nurses' station, flipping through patient charts, but her focus kept drifting toward the window that overlooked the therapy hall two floors below.
From up here she couldn't see faces, only movement—children shuffling, a flash of a guitar's polished body under the light, and a tall figure standing a little apart from the group. Red.
Her pulse ticked faster. He'd kept his word about supporting the program, which should have been a good thing. It wasn't. Every time she caught sight of him in these corridors, the ground beneath her felt a little less stable.
"Estelle?"
She blinked and looked up. One of the younger nurses, Marcy, was watching her. "Sorry, what?"
"I said we're short on bandages again. I'll run to supply if you can cover the front desk."
"Right. Go ahead."
Marcy hesitated, then smiled knowingly. "He's here again, isn't he? The basketball guy?"
Estelle's pen froze above the page. "He's one of the sponsors now. It's part of his work."
"Sure," Marcy said lightly, and left with a wave.
When she was gone, Estelle exhaled and pressed her hands flat on the counter. She wanted to be angry, but the emotion was muddled—something between resentment and an ache she didn't want to name.
A soft knock sounded behind her. Dr. Reyes leaned against the doorframe, a kind man with kind eyes. "You all right, Estelle? You look pale."
"I'm fine, Doc. Just tired."
He nodded, unconvinced. "That foundation fellow—Masterson—he's a good influence on the kids. And on the donors. You did well to invite him."
"I didn't," she said before she could stop herself. "It was administrative oversight."
"Still," Reyes said gently, "whatever his reasons, the hospital could use friends like that." He started to leave, then added, "You might too."
His words lingered long after he walked away.
Estelle closed the folder and gathered her things. She couldn't sit here watching ghosts move through her workplace. She needed air.
Outside, the sun was setting, staining the clouds the color of blood and tangerine. The heat had eased, replaced by that cool, damp scent that followed a day of rain.
She walked toward the edge of the parking lot where the view of the city opened wide and ugly and alive.
She thought of Rosette's calm voice at breakfast, of the way her sister had defended him. Of James's anger, simmering beneath everything they said. And she thought of Red's eyes in the corridor—the guilt, the apology, the something-else she hadn't wanted to recognize.
A decade should have been enough to erase the past. It wasn't. It was still here, breathing beside her, waiting.
Behind her, footsteps slowed. A shadow stretched long across the asphalt.
"Estelle."
She didn't turn right away. "You shouldn't keep showing up like this," she said, voice low.
"I came to make sure Rosette got home safe," he said.
"She doesn't need your protection."
"Maybe I do," he said softly.
That made her look at him. His expression was open, unguarded, as if the words had surprised even him. For a heartbeat, she almost believed him.
Then she stepped back. "You made your choices, Dranred. We all live with them."
He nodded slowly. "Then let me live with mine here, where I can at least try to make them right."
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed—James. She ignored it, but the vibration broke the fragile thread of silence between them.
"I have to go," she said.
He didn't stop her. He only watched as she walked away, the glow of the city catching in her hair until she vanished through the hospital doors.
James was halfway through repairing a carburetor when his phone buzzed on the workbench.
The garage was loud—engines idling, wrenches clanging, the steady pulse of a radio somewhere near the back. He wiped his hands on a rag and checked the screen.
A message from one of his old teammates, now a hospital security guard:
You didn't tell me your sister works with Red Masterson now. Man's been here all week.
James's stomach went cold. He read it twice.
That bastard. At the hospital. Again.
He tried to steady his breathing. It could be nothing—publicity, charity, whatever excuse Red was using these days. But the longer he stared at the message, the more the old anger started to rise—the same one that had nearly broken him once.
He typed back: You sure about that?
The reply came almost instantly.
Saw him myself. Music therapy room. Talking to Rosette. Thought you'd be happy—she looked over the moon.
Happy. James's fingers went slack. The letters blurred on the screen. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and walked out, the clang of the closing door echoing behind him.
The hospital corridors smelled like disinfectant and something too clean, like a place desperate to erase every trace of pain. He didn't belong here—oil still under his nails, the faint smell of gasoline on his jacket—but he kept walking.
When he reached the therapy hall, laughter drifted through the door.
He stopped.
Through the small glass window, he saw them: Dranred sitting beside Rosette as she strummed her guitar, a circle of children gathered around. Her smile was open, radiant—the kind she hadn't worn in years.
For a second, he almost smiled too. Then the moment twisted in his chest.
It didn't look like healing. It looked like betrayal.
He waited until the session ended. As the children filed out, he pushed the door open.
"Rosette—" His voice came out harder than he meant.
"Kuya?" Rosette turned, her face lighting up. "You came!"
Her smile faltered when she heard the tightness in his voice.
"Can we talk?"
Dranred stood immediately. "James—"
"Don't." James's tone cut through the room. "You don't get to say my name like that."
Rosette's hands gripped her cane. "Kuya, please—"
He ignored her. "You show up here, at her program, pretending you're some kind of savior. Why? To ease your conscience?"
Dranred didn't flinch. "I came to help. That's all."
"Help?" James took a step closer. "You helped enough the last time, remember?"
Rosette stepped between them, her voice trembling. "Stop it, both of you. I don't understand what started this, but you're both adults. Can you at least act like it?"
But James couldn't stop. The years of resentment spilled out faster than he could contain them.
"You think a few guitars and charity events make up for what happened? You think you can buy forgiveness?"
"No," Dranred said quietly. "But I can earn it."
The calm in his voice only fueled James's anger. He wanted to hit him—to make him feel the same sharp, permanent pain that had lived in his own leg since that night. But Rosette's trembling hand stopped him.
"Please," she whispered. "Not here."
James looked at her, at the fear and sadness in her expression. It was enough to make him step back.
"This isn't over," he said, his voice low. "Stay away from my sisters."
He didn't wait for Rosette's reply. He took her hand and led her out of the room. She didn't resist—she knew nothing could stop her brother once his temper took hold.
Dranred stayed in the empty therapy hall long after their footsteps faded. The air still carried the echo of the argument—James's ragged breathing, Rosette's frightened whisper, his own voice too steady for the chaos inside him.
He sat back down on the stool where Rosette had been, hands clasped. The guitars leaned against the wall, bright new wood against sterile white paint. One string still trembled faintly, humming the last note she'd struck before everything fell apart.
He hadn't expected forgiveness. Not really. But he'd hoped silence might finally mean peace.
Tonight, even silence sounded like regret.