Blazing hearts

-Day Two After Waking-

The sun was just starting to stretch across the floor-to-ceiling windows of the therapy wing when Monty was wheeled in, bundled in a hospital blanket that barely masked the nervous twitch of his fingers.

He hated being in the chair.

Not because it embarrassed him—hell, he'd been through worse. But because it reminded him how far he'd fallen. How long five months really was when your body had been asleep the entire time.

But he was awake now.

And he was going to stand.

His therapist, a tall woman named Carina with a braided bun and sharp eyes that missed nothing, offered a kind but business-like smile. "You ready, Montgomery?"

"Monty," he said, voice still scratchy, but stronger than yesterday. "Just Monty."

"Alright then," she nodded. "Let's see what you've got, Monty."

The first try was awkward.

His legs trembled the second his weight settled into his feet. His grip on the metal bar was tight, almost desperate, but he didn't fall. Not today. Not when the fire that had always lived inside him was finally starting to flicker again.

"Good," Carina encouraged. "Now straighten."

He took a breath. Pushed. And stood—slow, uneven, but solid.

God, it felt like climbing a mountain.

But Monty grit his teeth, jaw tense, shoulders squared as he stayed upright. His legs screamed in protest. His arms burned from gripping the rails. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But he didn't let go.

Not once.

"I remember how this feels," he muttered through clenched teeth. "My first deployment back. Had to relearn how to carry weight again."

Carina raised a brow. "Well, looks like your body remembers too."

After a few moments, she helped guide him to the walking bars.

They didn't speak much—just exchanged nods and glances. A rhythm was forming. Monty's muscles strained and shook, but he moved. Step by shaky step. One bar at a time.

And when he made it from one end to the other?

He stood there, panting, clinging to the bar with both hands.

Then he laughed.

Not a big laugh. Not loud.

But real.

Breathless and raw and real.

"Still got it," he whispered.

Carina smiled softly. "You're already ahead of the curve."

He looked down at his legs, bruised and lean, but moving. His chest rose with pride.

Then he looked at the door. Empty. No one waiting.

Just like yesterday.

But he didn't wilt.

Because this? This was his.

He was the one who woke up.

He was the one standing.

He was the one surviving.

And when the time came, when they finally saw him again—they wouldn't see a ghost or a patient or a memory frozen in a hospital bed.

They'd see Montgomery Elijah Smith.

Alive.

Standing.

And stronger than ever.