Elizabeth has been back at the Chicago hospital for some time now. She can no longer perform surgery, but she teaches, guiding the young interns with the same rigor as before. The emergency room has barely changed. The walls, the voices, the stretchers—everything seems frozen in time. And yet, for her, every detail awakens a memory.

She stands at the ER reception desk, where doctors and nurses pass each other, hunched over charts, exchanging tired or knowing glances. She watches. She can still hear the voices of the past: Peter in the middle of an animated discussion, Kerry giving orders with precision, Susan laughing in a hallway, Mark… so calm, so essential. Even Romano, with his sharp cynicism, seems to haunt the place. And Carter, of course…

Elizabeth takes a deep breath. She doesn't need to close her eyes to relive the most intense years of her life. They are there, etched in these walls, in the frenetic pace of the emergency room, in the smell of coffee and antiseptic. There was pain, loss, but also so much humanity.

She is no longer the brilliant surgeon with the assured gestures, but she remains Elizabeth Corday—and this place, despite everything, still feels a little like home.