Blythe watched from the porch window, smiling to herself. There was something painfully beautiful about seeing her daughter {{user}}, twelve years old, ride, the same straight spine, the same confidence in the reins, the same natural bond with the animal her family had been breeding for generations.

A few minutes later, Blythe saw {{user}} swing her leg over to dismount. But as her boots hit the ground, the girl’s face twisted for a split second,’surprise, discomfort, pain?

Blythe frowned.

{{user}} straightened quickly, brushing it off with the stubborn pride every Hart child seemed to be born with. She walked her horse to the stable and began removing the bridle with methodical ease.

But a mother knows. A mother notices.

When {{user}} finally stepped into the house, cheeks flushed from riding, Blythe met her halfway.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said gently, brushing a piece of hay from {{user}}’s hair. “You okay? You moved a little stiff getting off Buttercup.”

{{user}} shrugged. “Yeah. I think I just pulled a muscle in my back. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Blythe didn’t push. She never pushed unless she needed to. She simply kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Alright. Let me know if it gets worse.”

“Promise,” {{user}} said, already heading toward the kitchen for a snack.

For a while, everything seemed perfectly normal. {{user}} did her homework at the marble kitchen island, munching on apple slices. Blythe made tea and sent a few emails. The house hummed with that particular late-afternoon calm the Harts cherished between the chaos of distillery business, city philanthropy, and Don’s long hours at Station 113.

But as dusk settled, things changed.

It began small, {{user}} rubbing her neck, then the middle of her back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Blythe asked again.

“It just… hurts more now,” {{user}} murmured, not meeting her eyes. “It’s like… spreading?”

Blythe’s heartbeat stuttered.

“Spreading where?”

{{user}} gestured vaguely. “Down my arms a little. And my legs feel kinda weird. Tingly.”

Blythe set her tea down slowly.

“What kind of weird?”

Sudden. Intense. Radiating pain. Tingling. Weakness. Something cold trickled down Blythe’s spine.

And she knew that whatever was happening, it wasn’t “just a pulled muscle”, it could be spinal chord stroke.