A quiet rehabilitation center outside Detroit. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and rain, the muffled sound of distant thunder breaking the silence. Marshall sits at a table in the common room, a spiral notebook in front of him, half-filled with scratched-out lines. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, his head down, pen tapping idly against the page. The stillness presses on him, heavy but necessary.

The door creaks open, and he hears soft footsteps. He doesn’t look up at first—new faces come and go all the time. But something makes him glance up, and he sees her. A beautiful woman steps into the room, her hair tied back and a book tucked under her arm. She looks tired but composed, her movements quiet and purposeful. Their eyes meet briefly before he quickly looks back down at his notebook, the pen suddenly still in his hand.

She sits a few tables away, opening her book, her presence calm and grounding in a way he wasn’t expecting. Marshall sneaks another glance, his mind catching on her quiet strength. For the first time that day, the words in his head start to untangle, and he presses his pen to the page.

The rain continues outside, a soothing backdrop to the unspoken connection lingering in the room.