It was not a phone in my hand, but Daniel’s warm fingers wrapping around mine.

The clinical scent of St. Mary’s had vanished, replaced by the familiar aroma of beeswax and lavender.

I was back in my bedroom at the Whitmore estate.

The fever had broken three days ago.

Dr. Shah had pronounced me fit to stay home, provided I kept quiet and rested.

“You are safe, Claire,” Daniel whispered.

He sat on the edge of my mattress, his collar unbuttoned, his eyes tired but clear.

“I know,” I said.

My voice was hoarse, but it was my own.

The door creaked open, and two small figures slipped inside.

Lucas and Owen scrambled onto the bed, careful not to press against my bandaged side.

“We brought you the silver rattle,” Owen said, holding up the old family heirloom.

It did not move on its own anymore; it was just a quiet piece of metal.

I took it from him and set it on the nightstand.

Ruth stood in the doorway, a silver tray of tea in her hands.

She gave me a rare, brief nod of approval.