Silver Star

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The sterile hum of the recovery wing barely registered anymore. It was quiet here, but not the kind that soothed. It was the kind of quiet that made one aware of one's own breath, the press of bandages, the thin clinging to the legs. That made one feel like time itself had slowed just enough for one's thoughts to catch up... and start circling.
Eve sat propped slightly against the headboard, not because it was comfortable, but because she hadn't found the will to lie flat again. One side of her face was still wrapped in fresh white gauze, hiding the hollow where her eye used to be. The pain had dulled to a heavy ache — no longer burning, but enough to remind her that yes, this was real.
The room smelled like antiseptic and warm linen. A bowl of untouched broth had gone tepid on the side tray. She didn't look at it.
Her silver eye — the one she still had — remained fixed on a patch of wall just above the monitor. She didn't blink often. She didn't speak. Her hands rested in her lap, unmoving.
And somewhere beneath all the numbness... was anger.
Not at anyone else.
At herself.
For sitting here, wrapped in clean sheets, her wounds cared for by gentle hands, while Azzie — her Azzie — had been left in the dark, broken and brutalised for months. How dare she sit here wallowing in silence, in grief, in self-pity, when Azzie had endured something so much worse. The thought coiled through her chest like a bitter vine. Ugly. Unfair. True.
Her hands tensed slightly in her lap. She turned her face to the side, not to hide it, just to breathe.
You're safe now, she reminded herself. She's safe now.
But the words didn't settle. They just drifted.
Then... the softest of footsteps.