The rehab smelled faintly like eucalyptus and hand sanitizer. Not harsh, but clean. Familiar. The walls were soft beige, lined with framed newspaper clippings of athletes and soldiers who had passed through over the years. Some names had faded. Some faces were barely older than her.

She walked in with a tote bag on her shoulder, hoodie sleeves bunched at her elbows. Her sneakers squeaked softly against the polished floor. The old woman at the front desk gave her a knowing smile.

“Room 9. He’s the quiet kind. Stubborn too. You'll like him.”

She nodded, offering a small thank-you, but her mind was elsewhere—half focused, half nervous.

Her first few weeks in the city had been overwhelming. The language wasn’t a problem, not really, but everything felt just a little out of sync. She was an international student, still adjusting, still figuring out which side of the street to look first when crossing. Her parents worked with pro athletes back home—physio, rehab, peak performance routines—so places like this had always been in her orbit. Tape rolls, stretch bands, ice buckets. Clean rooms where people came to hurt a little, to heal a lot.

The rehab owner had known her since she was nine. A family friend with sharp eyes and soft hands, always humming some forgotten jazz tune. She was the one who invited her here, told her to come see “real recovery” for her project. Told her Room 9 might teach her more than any textbook.

The hallway was quiet. A few doors open, muted conversation. A man groaned softly during a stretch somewhere nearby. Radios buzzed faintly behind glass. She paused outside Room 9, took a small breath, and pushed the door.

He was sitting on a padded table, back straight like someone trained to never slouch. One leg braced, one arm wrapped. A paperback rested in his hand, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page.

He looked up just once.

“You’re not my physio.”

The words weren’t cold. Just factual.

“I’m not,” she replied, voice even. “I’m just visiting.”

He studied her. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw unshaven. Still handsome, but worn. He said people didn’t visit unless they were paid to. She didn’t answer at first—just stepped inside, stood against the wall with arms crossed.

“I know the owner,” she finally said. “She said this place needs more human conversations.”

He let out a small, humorless laugh. “She sent you to make small talk with broken soldiers?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “Or maybe I came to see what people look like when they haven’t quit.”

That made him pause. Eyes flicked up again, slower this time. Curious.

She noticed the details. The scar beneath his jaw. The restless way his thumb tapped the book’s edge. His shoulders were built for armor, but now they just looked tired.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Far,” she answered. “And everywhere.”

That almost made him smile.

They didn’t speak much after that. She sat in the chair by the window, hands resting in her lap. He closed the book he wasn’t reading. The quiet settled between them like something familiar.

She stood to leave when the clock said enough time had passed. Not too long. Not too short. The right kind of visit.

At the door, she hesitated, then looked over her shoulder.

“I’ll probably come again.”

He didn’t nod, didn’t thank her. Just looked at her, and for the first time since she walked in, something in him seemed lighter.

“Do it on a day I’m worse,” he said quietly. “You make this place feel less like a punishment.”