Chapter 3: Hands That Heal, Hearts That Scar

I straightened my spine, gripping the edge of the windowsill until my knuckles turned white. The past couldn’t be changed, but the future was still open, waiting for me to rewrite it—one act of kindness at a time.

I ordered someone to bring a jar of ointment from the medicine cabinet, crouched down, and gently touched his legs.

My hands trembled as I reached for him, but I forced myself to be gentle. The staff exchanged confused glances, but I ignored them. Julian’s skin was cool and dry, the scars angry and raised. I swallowed the lump in my throat and focused on what I could do right now.

Julian looked at me with a strange calm. As I rolled up his slacks, his eyes filled with disgust and resentment.

He turned his face away, jaw set tight. The tension in the air was thick, and I could almost feel him daring me to flinch, to show any sign of pity he could throw back in my face.

He let out a brittle laugh. "Still got your eye on me, huh, Autumn? Even like this?"

His voice was sharp, meant to cut. I winced, but kept my head down, refusing to let him see how much it stung. If this was what I had to endure to make things right, so be it.

I stayed silent. Instead of shaming him as the original Autumn had, I carefully worked the ointment into his skin, massaging his legs with slow, practiced hands.

The ointment was cool and thick—an American pharmacy blend with menthol and arnica, something I’d whipped up in the old kitchen. I took my time, working it into the skin, careful not to cause him pain. The silence was heavy, but I let it stretch, hoping he’d understand my intent.

He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "What are you doing, Autumn?"

His voice was softer, the edge dulled by uncertainty. He watched me closely, as if waiting for me to pull the rug out from under him.

I nodded toward his legs. "I called Dr. Evans—you know, the family doctor who always wears that faded Red Sox cap. Your legs aren’t beyond hope. If you use the ointment every day, do some PT, get massages, and soak in hot baths, you could be back on your feet in a few months."

I tried to sound confident, drawing on every bit of medical training I’d ever had. I rattled off the treatments, hoping to spark even a little hope in him—or at least, give him something to hold onto.

For a split second, hope flashed in Julian’s eyes, but then his face darkened again. "Even if my legs heal, I’m still…broken. What difference does it make?"

His voice was hollow, all the hope snuffed out as quickly as it had appeared. I saw the familiar shadow of despair settle over him, and my heart ached for him.

I lowered my head, speaking gently. "You’re brilliant, Julian. One day, you’ll be a leader in your field—don’t sell yourself short."

I kept my voice soft, but earnest. I wanted him to remember who he used to be—the kid who’d aced every test, the young man who’d won the state debate championship. The world had tried to break him, but I refused to let it win.

Julian sneered, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

He didn’t buy it—not yet. But for just a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of doubt, or maybe hope. It was enough to keep me going.

To him, it was almost laughable—the person who hurt him now trying to play the hero.

I understood. Forgiveness wasn’t something you could demand; it was something you had to earn, one day at a time. I tucked that truth away, determined to prove myself.

I didn’t argue. I met his gaze and asked, "Can you move to the bed?"

My voice was steady, though my hands still trembled. I knew he hated asking for help, but I wanted him to have some control. Even the smallest choice could matter when everything else had been taken away.

Julian’s mouth twisted in mockery, but he calmly wheeled himself to the bedside, then, bracing himself on his arms, awkwardly slid from the edge of the bed to the old leather couch nearby.

His movements were slow and stubborn. Sweat beaded at his hairline, but he refused to let me help. That fierce pride—the same thing that made him a star student—burned bright, undimmed by pain.

He lay flat, eyes closed. "If you have to do something, just get it over with. I’m exhausted."

He sounded defeated, almost resigned. I hesitated, then perched beside him, determined to show that this time would be different.

I took a breath and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the old box springs creak beneath me and the warmth of the patchwork quilt beneath my hands.

Julian had the kind of face that could make anyone stop and stare—features chiseled and striking, eyes as dark as a stormy night over Lake Michigan.

Even battered and bruised, he looked like he belonged in a painting—delicate, yet unbreakable. His hair fell in soft waves, and his lips were pressed together in a stubborn line. I caught myself holding my breath, torn between awe and sorrow.

Even now, he carried an air of cold detachment, like a young American movie star—untouchable, distant, and impossibly captivating.

There was a gravity to him, a quiet strength that refused to be crushed. Even lying there, vulnerable and wounded, he seemed to radiate a silent dignity. It was no wonder the world fell for him, even as it tried to tear him down.

I slowly slipped off his jacket, then untied the drawstring of his sweatpants, my fingers clumsy with nerves.