Sirius arrived at the castle just before sunset.

The corridors were quiet, the air thick with the smell of stone, parchment, and the vague charge of a coming full moon. The air always felt different on nights like this. Not dangerous—just expectant.

Dumbledore had given his approval for the visit, sure, albeit with a familiar glint in his eye that said he'd be watching all the same. Sirius had grinned and said something flippant about wanting to see this "tame wolf" for himself, but truth be told, he was nervous.

But truthfully, he wasn't feeling all that charming.

He hadn't seen Remus on Wolfsbane before. Last month's moon—at the end of August—had been the usual brutal affair. This time, Sirius wanted to witness what the potion actually did. If it helped. If it really let Remus stay Remus.

He reached the Defence office just in time to hear the unmistakable voice of Severus Snape delivering something in his usual frostbitten tone. Sirius knocked once on the open door with the back of his knuckles before pushing it fully open.

Snape was setting a goblet on Remus's desk. Remus, pale and steady, nodded his thanks with quiet civility. The room smelled faintly of aconite and old tension.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Evening, gentlemen."

Snape turned with a sneer. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal dog. Come to supervise my potion skills, Black? Going to sniff around and make sure I haven't laced it with silver shavings?"

"Hardly," Sirius said, his voice even, though his lip twitched. "But since you're here, mind having a word? Outside."

Snape's lip curled, but he didn't argue. He cast a final glance at Remus—who looked like he would've quite liked to vanish into the floor—and swept out into the corridor in a flurry of black robes.

Sirius followed, closing the door behind them.

"If this is going to be a conversation of veiled threats," Snape began before Sirius could speak, "about what might happen to me should I tamper with Lupin's potion, let me save you the trouble. I myself reside here, and the castle is full of students. A rampaging werewolf is not in my best interest—so stuff it, Black."

Sirius blinked. "Okay, first—good to know Slytherins remain reliably self-preserving. But no. That's not why I asked you out here."

Snape folded his arms, unimpressed. "Then by all means. Do enlighten me."

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Actually… I wanted to apologise."

Snape stared at him, utterly unmoved. "You're sorry. How original. For which atrocity, exactly?"

"The incident in fifth year," Sirius said, voice quieter now. "Telling you how to get past the Whomping Willow. That was—look, it wasn't a prank. It was a bloody death trap. And I know it. Let's just say my list of regrets is long—but that one's a top contender. I'm sorry."

Snape's gaze narrowed. "If this pitiful attempt at repentance is meant to guarantee Lupin's continued safety, rest assured—"

"It's not," Sirius interrupted. "I mean it. You don't have to believe me, but I'm not expecting forgiveness. I know we'll never be friends. Hell, I don't even like you. But I can still be sorry."

Snape said nothing. Sirius took a breath.

"I also wanted to say—James didn't know. Nor did Remus. What I did, I did alone. And James—he really did go after you because it was the right thing to do, not because he 'chickened out.'"

There was a flicker in Snape's expression. Too fast to catch. Then his mouth twisted.

"How noble of you, Black. I'm sure Saint Potter would be proud."

Sirius's jaw clenched, but he didn't rise to the bait.

"I only have one ask," he said. "Whatever issues you have with me, or James—leave Harry out of it. He's not us."

Snape scoffed. "Potter is a smug, self-important—"

"He's not," Sirius snapped. "He's a boy who's been living in hand-me-downs four sizes too big and hiding skinny arms and one too many visible ribs under long sleeves. You think Petunia coddled him? You knew her. You knew how she treated Lily."

Snape faltered, something flickering behind his eyes.

"You really think she treated her magical nephew like a prince?" Sirius said, quieter now. "You honestly think he's spoiled? He's grown up under circumstances more like yours than James's."

That silenced Snape.

Sirius pressed on, quieter now. "Maybe ask Dumbledore sometime about why he was really left there. Ask him what Harry being a Parselmouth actually means. Ask him what he's planning to do about it. You might not like the answer. Not if Lily still matters to you. Not that I think he'll ever give you a straight answer—he never does."

Snape didn't speak. He didn't move.

Sirius gave him a last nod and turned back toward the door.

Inside, Remus looked up from his armchair, his expression unreadable.

"Well," Remus said dryly. "That was… braver than I expected."

"I know," Sirius muttered, flopping into the armchair across from him. "And now I feel like I need something strong and possibly chocolate."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure provoking him wasn't the real goal?"

Sirius gave him a look. "I said I was sorry. Three times, in fact. If he wants to ignore it, that's his right. But I meant it."

Remus's gaze softened. "Still. That was a long time coming."

Sirius nodded. "Yeah. Not expecting a medal. Just… trying to let some ghosts rest."

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then Sirius grinned and reached into his coat pocket. "Anyway, I brought us reading material. Thought we could revisit a little Stephen King before the moon rises. Something about werewolf horror novels always makes me feel like we're underachieving."

Remus snorted. "Only you would bring Cycle of the Werewolf as pre-transformation reading."

"Hey," Sirius said, tossing the book into Remus's lap. "Besides, you'll be full wolf in an hour. Gotta squeeze the comedy in now. Although I hear this is going to be a different experience. Pity I can't read aloud in barks to you after, now that you won't be trying to bite me."

Remus shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Keep talking like that and I might still try to bite you, just on purpose."

"Admit it, though," Sirius said, kicking his boots up onto the edge of the desk. "You've missed me."

Remus didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Sirius stepped out of the Floo into the master bedroom, fingers still raw from gripping the edges of the fireplace tile too tightly. The scent of the castle clung to his robes—damp stone and faint moonlight and the sharp herbal tang of Wolfsbane, still lingering in his nostrils even though Remus had been fine. Achy and tired, but lucid. Whole. He was going to send Damocles Belby a gift basket and possibly the funding for a research grant.

Sirius had expected to come home to tea, maybe a comment about how long he took, maybe Hermione half-asleep in their bed with a book crumpled beneath her cheek.

What he hadn't expected was silence.

Real silence.

The kind that pressed against the eardrums and made magic hum uneasily under the skin.

"Ione?" he called, already striding into the room. The bed was empty. The lights in the en suite were still on.

The door was slightly ajar.

He pushed it open—and his breath caught.

Hermione was on the floor.

Half-curled against the tiled wall, her skin pale as parchment, a small trail of blood dried at her upper lip. Her mouth was parted slightly. One hand still limply held the side of the sink like she'd meant to stand and hadn't made it.

"Hermione," he breathed. Then, louder and more frantic: "Ione—Kitten—wake up."

She didn't stir.

He dropped to his knees.

Fingers fumbled to check her pulse—weak, fluttery, but there.

Her magic still buzzed faintly under her skin, but it was muted, unstable, like static on a wireless.

His heart thudded wildly.

He didn't stop to think, even if in the back of his mind he was desperately trying to list the types of blood curses that were possibly on the books she had been reading like it was a religion these past few weeks. He scooped her into his arms, whispering an urgent spell to clear the dried blood from her face as he sprinted back toward the Floo. He didn't dare risk Apparition—not if her system was already this compromised.

The emerald fire roared as he shouted, "St Mungo's—Spell Damage Ward—NOW."

The hospital was all too familiar.

They took her from his arms the second he stumbled into the waiting room, a bit of blood still staining her upper lip, her head lolling against his shoulder. A blur of Healers, stretchers, diagnostic charms flying through the air as they ushered him to the side.

Sirius was left standing there, breathing like he'd just outrun death itself. He barely heard them over the buzzing in his ears.

"Critically low haemoglobin." "Platelets are bottoming out." "Blood replenisher, now. Two doses—one magic-booster, one for baseline cell production."

Sirius felt like he was watching it all through frosted glass. Hermione, ghost-pale on a hovering stretcher. Her fingers twitching as colour slowly bled back into her lips. Her lashes fluttering.

Then—

"Ione," he said softly, moving to her side as her eyes finally cracked open. "Hey, there you are."

"Miss Lupin?" the Healer said gently. "My name is Healer Aisling. You're stable now. We had to administer two rounds of blood replenisher—your counts were dangerously low."

She blinked slowly, licking her dry lips. "What… what happened?"

"You collapsed. Your partner brought you in—thankfully in time. Our diagnostic charms show severe pancytopenia. That means your bone marrow isn't producing blood cells properly—red, white, platelets. It's more characteristic of a Muggle condition called aplastic anaemia than any magical illness or curse we've seen. But it doesn't quite match."

Hermione's mind raced. Her voice was a rasp. "So… it's not leukaemia?"

The Healer shook her head. "No. Not leukaemia," Aisling clarified. "This isn't a proliferation of malignant cells—it's failure. It's as though your bone marrow has stopped producing properly."

Hermione's pulse quickened. "So… what would cause that?"

"In theory?" The Healer hesitated. "A massive magical event. A ritual collapse, a surge of wild energy. Something that deeply destabilises the core of your physical-magic interface. But we've never documented anything like this."

Hermione stared at the ceiling. Her voice was quiet, even. "What about… nuclear radiation? Muggle atom reactors?"

The Healer tilted her head. "What's a Muggle atom reactor?"

Sirius nearly snorted despite himself.

"Atomic fallout," Hermione clarified, trying to keep her tone clinical. "From a reactor meltdown. Like Chernobyl."

"Chernobyl?" Aisling echoed, frowning. "That was—what, seven years ago?"

Hermione nodded. "April 1986. I was travelling. I passed through Ukraine that spring. I wasn't in the exclusion zone, but it's possible I was exposed to something. Delayed effects aren't unheard of, right? Even if not as abrupt as magic, nuclear damage builds in the body over time."

That wasn't a lie, not technically. She had been alive on April 26, 1986. She just hadn't been there.

Aisling frowned, making a note. "We'll cross-reference Muggle data, but we don't typically screen for that kind of exposure. Still, it's… not impossible. Prolonged exposure to invisible forces—radiation or otherwise—could interfere with marrow production. Especially if it damaged the origin point. Just highly unusual in wizards and witches."

Sirius was silent, jaw tight.

There was a pause. The Healer cleared her throat and asked more carefully, "Have you had any magical procedures done since that time? Something that could have altered your system? Magical transfusions, body magics, or… blood rituals?"

Hermione's throat tightened. She didn't answer immediately.

"We're not required to report it," Aisling added gently. "Healer-patient confidentiality applies."

Sirius's fingers tightened on hers.

After a long pause, Hermione nodded once. "Yes. There was a blood adoption ritual. Not long ago."

"Well, consider yourself lucky, it probably saved your life," Aisling said, not unkindly.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"You have two distinct magical signatures in your system. Your original magical pattern is nearly gone. But the new one—that smaller graft— it's what's sustaining your body's blood cell production. Barely. Like… a vine rooting through cracked stone. It's weak, but it's holding."

Hermione swallowed hard. "But the magic itself isn't affected?"

"No. The magical core seems intact. Which is what's so baffling. You haven't experienced wild surges or magical instability?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. Nothing like that."

The Healer tapped her wand against the chart. "We'll keep running diagnostics. But you're right—it's unprecedented. If there's a solution, it may need to come from both magical and Muggle medicine. Possibly some hybrid of bone marrow transplant theory and magical grafting."

Hermione nodded slowly. "Start with Muggle haematology. Transplant theory. Immunosuppressants and donor compatibility. I'll help you draw the parallels."

"Are you a Muggle medical professional by any chance?"

"No. I just read a lot."

Aisling blinked, then gave a slow, impressed nod. "We'll look into that then." She then glanced at Sirius. "She needs rest. Try not to let her argue too much."

She left the room quietly.

Silence fell like snowfall.

Sirius was still holding her hand, fingers interlaced tightly. He didn't speak for a long moment.

Then, softly: "This what you were going to tell me yesterday?"

"Just the symptoms. I thought it was leukaemia."

"And all that Chernobyl bullshit? What was that about? You were barely seven at the time."

Hermione let out a slow breath. "I think I know what caused it. The reason my marrow's failing. It was the time travel."

Sirius stilled.

"I never told you—when I came back… the chain of the Time-Turner snapped mid-transfer when we were testing a new stabiliser. Hence why I landed so far off from our original parameters. But they're not just time devices—they're protective, too. Insulating against the magnitude of magical forces involved in time travel." Her voice cracked. "I went through raw. It's like walking into a cosmic reactor without shielding."

His stomach dropped.

"I think that's what did it. The exposure. And to think if I didn't ask Remus for the adoption just to have an identity…"

Sirius was quiet. His hand slid from hers to press gently over her ribs, grounding her. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Hermione looked away. "I didn't put it together until just now, when she was talking about wild magical energies as a possible cause."

"I knew in my gut something was wrong when you got sick again, I should have made you come to St Mungo's last week…"

"You couldn't have known. Please don't be mad, I didn't know either. I've only just started researching my symptoms on Monday…"

Sirius sat beside her on the edge of the bed. "I'm not mad. Just—don't lie to the Healers again. Not when it's this serious."

She bit her lip. "I didn't lie. I just… misdirected."

He arched a brow.

"I don't want the Department of Mysteries involved," she whispered. "If they knew what really happened… I'd disappear. I'm sure of it."

Sirius didn't argue.

Didn't say she was being paranoid. Because she wasn't.

He just leaned forward, rested his forehead against hers, and said:

"Okay. We'll figure it out. We always do."

By early afternoon, Hermione was doing better.

The colour had returned to her cheeks. Not all of it—there was still a pallor under the skin that no potion could completely erase—but she looked alive again. Present. Her fingers no longer trembled when she held her tea, and her voice had stopped rasping when she spoke.

She had a fresh blanket tucked around her shoulders and a stack of medical journals next to the bed that Sirius was fairly certain she was using more to distract herself than anything else.

The Healers had already come and gone twice by the time Sirius sat down again with a huff, legs splayed and shoulders stiff. The afternoon light filtered through the stained glass window beside her bed, throwing pink and gold across his boots.

They set her up in the observation ward overnight with a regimen—daily blood-replenishing potions, magical monitoring charms, and an entire small army of baffled specialists quietly arguing about hybridised transplant theory in the corridor for a long-term solution.

"So," he muttered, not looking at her. "As long as they keep dosing you with that bloody potion, you'll stay upright."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "They also told me not to get overly emotional. So maybe quit with the brooding and try not to look quite so much like a kicked puppy."

"I'm not brooding," Sirius snapped.

She tilted her head. "Then why are you glowering at the heater like it insulted James?"

He didn't answer. Just picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.

Hermione glanced over the top of the journal. "You're still here."

"I live here now," Sirius said flatly, without looking at her. "I've claimed the armchair. You're not allowed to die. I've grown attached."

"You're not that attached," she said lightly. "You haven't even transfigured it into a recliner, yet."

"That would require leaving the chair," he said dryly. "And I'm not leaving the chair."

Hermione sighed and gently shut the journal. "Sirius. You need to go."

His jaw clenched. "Absolutely not."

"You have your Mind Healer appointment."

"I can cancel. I'll just owl Thalassa and reschedule. I'm sure she'll understand—I mean, it's not every day you find your girlfriend unconscious in the bathroom—"

"You're not cancelling, Sirius," Hermione said firmly, shifting slightly and wincing only a little. "You can't miss a session. Not this week. Not with the hearing on Saturday."

"I know," he said, running a hand through his hair, "but it's one bloody appointment—"

"One bloody appointment that the court might use to determine your mental fitness as a legal guardian," she said, cool but unflinching. "Sirius. Harry's future could depend on that report."

He finally stopped moving. "I can explain. Emergency circumstances. No court in the world would hold that against me."

"But they might," she said softly. "They might, if they want to find a reason to disqualify you. You know how easily fear wins out in these things. Especially when it's someone like Albus Dumbledore at the other end of the table. Don't give them ammunition."

He let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "But what if something happens while I'm gone?"

"I'm in St Mungo's," she said reasonably. "Surrounded by Healers. Monitored by three diagnostic charms and a bloody scrying orb. You're not exactly leaving me to fend for myself in the Forbidden Forest."

"You still passed out with a nosebleed like some cursed opera heroine."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"And now I've had potions and two naps and a fascinating lecture from Healer Aisling on marrow regeneration. I am officially the most stable thing in this room."

"You're literally not," he muttered, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. "Your blood is still rebuilding itself. And what if something changes while I'm not here?"

"It won't," Hermione said calmly. "And even if it does, you'll be only a few floors away."

"You don't get it," Sirius said, softer now. "If something happened and I wasn't here—"

"Then I'd still be in good hands," she interrupted. "And you would've been doing the thing that makes it possible for you to keep Harry. That's why you have to go."

Sirius scowled at the floor. "They'd understand if I missed one session."

"I wouldn't," she said firmly.

He looked up, startled.

Hermione held his gaze. "You've worked too hard. You've gone too far. You're not missing what is now practically a court-mandated session with your Mind Healer because of me. That is not how this story ends."

Sirius's mouth opened, then closed again.

She reached for his hand. "I am not dying. Not today. I'm being fussed over by an entire hospital staff who find me 'baffling and fascinating,' and I am not going anywhere. You, however, will go talk about your feelings and how much you want to hex Dumbledore. And then you'll come back up here, and we'll plan next steps together."

He stared at her, jaw working.

"I mean it, Sirius," she added. "I will bribe a Healer to drag you out if I have to."

And she would. He didn't doubt it for a second.

"…Merlin, you're terrifying," he muttered, standing and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. I'll go. But only because you've threatened me with emotional growth and hospital conspiracy."

Hermione smirked.

He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and hovered for just a second longer. "One hour."

She nodded. "I'll time you."

"You rest," he said, brushing his knuckles gently against her temple. "Let them poke and prod you. Maybe flirt with a Junior Healer. Make me jealous."

"I'll flirt with a cauldron scrubber if it gets you out of this room faster," she said flatly.

He lingered one more heartbeat, then shrugged on his coat like it weighed twice as much. At the door, he turned back, voice a little rough.

"If anything changes—anything at all—you have them get me. Immediately."

Hermione nodded. "Same goes for you, you know. If Thalassa tries to make you cry about your childhood again, just send up sparks."

He gave a dry snort. "You know me. I only cry for tragic dogs and doomed romances."

Hermione smiled faintly. "Good thing you've got neither anymore."

Sirius's grin was crooked. "Touché."

And with that, he left—his shoulders still tense, but his steps just a little lighter. If Hermione was snarking at him, it meant she was really starting to feel like herself again.

The office was too warm.

Sirius shrugged out of his coat and slung it over the back of the chair like it had personally offended him. Then he slouched into the seat opposite Thalassa Avery with a theatrical groan, stretching out like he owned the place—which, of course, was the performance. That was always the performance.

Thalassa didn't blink. She just quirked an eyebrow and made a note on her parchment.

"I see we're leading with dramatics today."

"Better than leading with trauma," Sirius said breezily, folding his arms. "Though if you're looking for fresh material, I did nearly watch my girlfriend die in our loo this morning."

A pause. His voice hadn't cracked. That was something.

Thalassa's quill stilled. "She's stable now?"

"Yes."

"Are you alright?"

"Define 'alright.'"

"I'd rather you did."

Sirius exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back against the chair. "I'm tired. She's pale. The Healers are baffled, which is always what you want to hear when it's someone you love, right? 'We don't know what's wrong, or how to fix it exactly, but here, have a potion and good luck.'" His eyes flicked back to her. "But yes. She's stable. I didn't punch any Healers. So, progress."

"Mm," Thalassa murmured, writing something else. "And you're here."

"Yes. Under the threat of being kicked out by bribed Junior Healers. I'm a paragon of commitment."

"Actually," she said mildly, "I'd say you're terrified."

That stopped him. Just for a second.

Then he gave her a crooked smile. "You're good at your job."

"I should be," she said. "You're not subtle, Sirius. You never have been."

He laughed at that. It was tired. "No. I suppose not."

Thalassa leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together. "Tell me what made you come today. Truly."

Sirius tapped his fingers against his knee. "Because she told me to. And because I'm trying not to cock up this custody hearing. And because—" He stopped. Swallowed. "—if something does happen to her… Harry will need me more than ever."

"That's very rational," Thalassa said softly.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, "I hate it."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Thalassa said, "You've made a lot of progress these past few weeks. But the old patterns are still there. The impulse to throw everything away the second it gets hard."

"I didn't," he said. "This time."

"No," she agreed. "You didn't. And that matters. But you're rattled. You want control, and this isn't something you can fix with a wand or a snide comment."

Sirius's jaw flexed. "I hate that she kept it from me."

"She was scared," Thalassa said. "And so are you."

He didn't argue.

After a while, she asked, "Have you told Harry what's happening?"

"No. And I won't—not unless I have to. He's a kid. He shouldn't have to carry that, too."

"You're shielding him."

"I'm trying to protect him. The way James would've wanted."

"And what do you want?"

That question lodged somewhere deep in his chest. Sirius blinked slowly, like he could clear it out through sheer stubbornness.

"I want them both safe," he said eventually. "Harry and Ione. That's all. And I want the goddamn world to stop trying to steal the people I care about."

Thalassa didn't answer. Just let the words hang in the air like smoke.

Sirius sat forward, elbows on knees, fingers loosely clasped. "I don't want to be the man I was. The angry one. The reckless one. The one who thought revenge was justice and grief was weakness. I've done a lot of things wrong. But not this. Not Harry. I want to get this right."

"You are," she said gently. "More than you think."

He nodded, once. Then scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Still feels like walking on glass."

"Sometimes growth does."

He gave a tired laugh. "You and your bloody metaphors."

She smiled. "That's why you keep coming back."

"No," he said. "I come back because if I didn't, Ione would find a way to hex me in my sleep."

Thalassa nodded sagely. "Smart woman."

"She is," he said, the smile fading into something quieter. "Terrifying, brilliant, impossible woman. And I don't know how to help her."

"Sometimes being there is enough."

Sirius was quiet again.

After a moment, Thalassa stood, smoothing the front of her robes. "That's all for today. Go back upstairs. Hold her hand. And remember you've already done the hardest part."

Sirius got to his feet. "Which part was that?"

"Choosing to stay."

He gave her a look. "That's the easiest part of it all."

He hated hospitals.

The walls were too pale, the air too clean. Magic buzzed under his skin in a way that always made him feel like he was about to be hexed by a well-meaning diagnostic charm. People passed him in green robes and sensible shoes, all with that same professional calm that only ever meant something awful has already happened, and we are very good at pretending it's routine.

Sirius walked quickly, hands shoved into his pockets like that might hold him together. He didn't trust them not to shake.

He hadn't realised how fast he'd been walking until a pair of interns stepped aside to let him pass, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like that's Black, the not murderer apparently. He didn't turn his head. Didn't give them the satisfaction of eye contact. Just kept moving, one foot in front of the other, because if he stopped, he wasn't sure he'd start again.

Thalassa had been right.

He was terrified.

Not in the screaming, flailing, Dementor-in-your-face kind of way. No, this was quieter. Deeper. Like a slow bleed under the ribs. Like knowing the ground beneath your feet might give way at any moment, but still pretending to walk tall.

Because if he let himself crumble—if he gave in to the feeling that kept clawing at the back of his throat—then who would be left to keep the pieces together?

He didn't know how to do this. Not really. Not without falling apart. Not without grabbing his wand and cursing the entire world for letting someone like Hermione—someone bright and stubborn and clever enough to argue with death itself—fade under hospital lights like a wilted rose.

And yet.

She'd still snarked at him. Still made threats with the calm certainty of a woman who knew how to weaponise logic and guilt in equal measure. Still told him to go to your bloody session or I'll find a way to smuggle in a wand and hex your eyebrows off.

It was so very her.

And she was right.

God, she was right. About the court. About Harry. About all of it. She always was. And it made him want to scream.

Because even now—especially now—she was still protecting him. Still putting everyone else first, even when her own marrow was turning traitor in her bones.

He hated it.

He loved her for it.

And it scared the hell out of him.

Sirius rounded the corner to the Spell Damage ward, boots squeaking faintly against the polished floor, and slowed as her room came into view. The glass pane caught the light in a soft shimmer, and beyond it, he could see her—curled in the bed, flipping through some absurdly thick textbook with a determined frown, a cup of tea cradled between her hands like it was a lifeline.

He stopped for a moment just outside the door.

Took a breath.

Pressed a hand to the wall—not because he needed the support, of course not—but because he needed to feel something solid. Something that wouldn't fall apart.

Then he pushed the door open.

And stepped back into the light.