Weeks later.
Estelle stared at her leg, her breathing shallow with concentration.
"Again," the therapist said gently from beside her.
The rehabilitation room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender oil, the late morning light spilling softly through the tall windows.
Somewhere beyond the hallway, a cart rattled past, but Estelle barely heard it. Her entire world narrowed to one thing.
Move. She swallowed hard and focused inward, reaching for the connection that had once come as naturally as breathing.
Once, her body had obeyed her without hesitation. Every leap, every spin, every impossible landing had felt effortless.
Now, nothing.
Her breath caught. She tried again, harder this time, forcing every ounce of willpower downward like she could command her body through sheer desperation alone.
Then suddenly, there was a faint tingle. So small she almost thought she imagined it.
