Chapter 10
The elevator chimed softly before the doors slid open onto Floor Six, releasing a draft of cool air and the faint scent of primer and sawdust.
Seraphina stepped out with her tablet tucked under one arm, blouse impeccably styled, hair pinned into a low twist that had survived two meetings and one tedious call without losing its shape.
The floor was stripped bare.
Open studs.
Exposed wiring.
Taped outlines and chalk marks ghosting across the concrete where offices would soon take form.
She liked this stage of renovation.
Nothing pretended to be finished yet. Nothing hid its weaknesses behind paint or furniture. Everything was visible.
Down the hall, the general contractor's crew worked steadily, drills humming, voices low and efficient. But closer to the central junction stood Atticus Gray, sleeves rolled up, radio clipped to his belt, clipboard tucked against his side.
Facilities maintenance.
Repair and oversight.
The quiet backbone of the building.
"Morning, Ms. Monroe," he called when he noticed her.
"Good morning, Mr. Gray," she replied. "You're here early."
"Always am," he said lightly. "I wanted to run through the electrical and emergency systems before framing closes things in."
She nodded. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd say."
They walked together at an easy pace, Atticus pointing out recent checks. Emergency lighting. Power redundancies. Panel access points. The unglamorous details that only mattered when something went wrong.
Seraphina didn't interrupt. She listened. Asked precise questions. Made notes.
He didn't oversell his work or downplay it. He spoke the way people did when they knew exactly what they were responsible for.
She respected that.
They paused near one of the junction boxes, wires neatly bundled and labeled.
"Everything's clean," she said. "Thank you."
Atticus nodded. "That's the goal."
As they moved on, one of the electricians passed by, ladder balanced on his shoulder. Another followed, carrying conduit.
Then a voice Seraphina didn't recognize spoke up.
"Hey, Gray," the man said, glancing over from a temporary workstation. "Hope you don't mind me asking... how's your daughter doing? Haven't seen her around in a while."
Atticus stopped.
Seraphina did too, though she kept her attention on her tablet.
"Oh, Elowyn?" Atticus answered. "She's sick again."
"Yeah?" the man said, concerned. "She okay?"
Before Atticus could answer, one of the older workers spoke softly.
"She ever really okay when she's sick?" he said. "That girl goes down hard."
Another chimed in from further down the hall. "She was curled up in her room last winter for weeks when she caught the flu."
"Does she always get sick that easy?" The newer worker asked.
Mr. Gray hesitated a beat before answering. "She... yeah. She was born early. Really early. Her lungs weren't ready. Nothing in her body was."
He sighed before continuing.
"The doctors had warned me about all this happening if she ever made it out of that hospital."
One of the older workers sighed quietly. "Yeah. I remember you telling us that."
The voice from down the hall chimed in again. "She pushes through it, though. Always has."
"And the sensory stuff doesn't help," Atticus added. "Bright lights, loud noise. Makes it worse when she's already sick, messes with her routines."
"Autism'll do that," the older worker said simply, without pity. Just fact.
Seraphina's grip on her tablet tightened, just slightly.
Autism.
The word settled into place with a soft, internal click.
Suddenly, the memories reordered themselves.
The way Elowyn never met her eyes.
How she startled when something clattered at the bookstore.
The careful, almost apologetic way she spoke, as if every sentence needed permission to exist.
The rigid posture. The rocking. The fidgeting hands and nose scrunching.
It hadn't been clumsiness or fear.
It had been processing.
Seraphina exhaled slowly through her nose, her expression unchanged, but something in her focus sharpened. What she had initially registered as fragility reframed itself into effort. Constant, quiet effort.
That mattered.
She didn't feel pity. She despised pity.
But understanding had weight.
And once she noticed something, she didn't forget it.
The man looked surprised. "Didn't know that."
"She's been tagging along with Gray to work since she was a kid," someone said. "Quiet, tiny girl. Sweet, though. Always brings snacks for the guys."
"Remember when she named the stray cat that kept sneaking in at this old place we worked on?" Another laughed. "Refused to let anyone scare it off."
Atticus chuckled lightly, feeling grateful for his friends who listened when he needed support.
"She's resting now. That's what matters."
Seraphina's fingers had stopped moving.
She didn't turn.
Didn't comment.
But something settled low in her chest all the same.
This wasn't gossip.
This wasn't pity.
This was familiarity. Community. People who noticed when someone small disappeared.
She hadn't realized Elowyn existed this fully outside of their brief encounters.
Atticus glanced at her, perhaps worried he'd spoken too freely.
Seraphina met his gaze calmly. "Thank you for being thorough today," she said, smoothly redirecting. "I'll leave you to it."
Relief flickered across his face. "Of course."
They continued their walkthrough, quieter now.
A few minutes later, Atticus returned with his clipboard.
"We're planning to seal the hallway walls this afternoon," he said. "Once I clear the last system checks."
"That works," Seraphina replied, reviewing his notes. His handwriting was surprisingly neat. "Any issues?"
"One replacement kit didn't arrive yet," he said. "It'll be here tonight. Doesn't affect safety."
She looked up. "I appreciate you flagging it."
"It's my job."
She handed the clipboard back. "You're reliable, Mr. Gray. I don't worry when you're overseeing things."
He blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"That's... good to hear."
"It's accurate," she said. Praise was meaningless if it wasn't honest.
As she headed back toward the elevator, the floor buzzed with progress. Systems layering carefully atop one another. Order emerging from disruption.
The doors slid shut.
Seraphina exhaled slowly.
Some things needed control to function properly.
Others needed patience. Maintenance. Someone willing to notice strain before failure.
And for reasons she couldn't yet define,
Elowyn Gray felt like something that required attention.
Not hovering.
Not interference.
Just awareness.
?
E
lowyn felt... fine.
Annoyingly fine.
She blinked at the ceiling, waiting for the dramatic pain to return, the Biblical head-throbbing, the needle-throat, the inability to breathe through anything but sheer determination.
Nothing.
Her throat only felt a little scratchy. Her nose was only slightly stuffy. Her body only ached in the way it usually did when she slept at a weird angle, which, in fairness, happened more often than she admitted.
She sat up slowly, cautiously, like the sickness might jump her from behind.
Nothing.
She breathed in through her nose.
Air. Actual air.
"...oh," she whispered.
So she hadn't been dying.
Or cursed.
Or struck by some rare Victorian illness that only affected fragile heroines.
It was just a cold.
That was, honestly, embarrassing.
Her stuffed elephant stared at her from the nightstand, silently judging.
"Oh, whatever," she muttered, crossing her arms.
She swung her legs off the bed and immediately regretted it because her joints cracked like glow sticks. But still, alive.
Completely alive.
She shuffled into the kitchen in her mismatched socks, hair a disaster, blanket still draped over her shoulders like a cape.
Her dad looked up and quickly shoved whatever mail he had been reading into a drawer.
"Good morning, fairy," he said. "Feeling any better?"
She moved to arraned the salt and pepper shakers the correct way, then turned to grab an apple juice.
"...It was just a cold," she said in the flattest voice she possessed.
Atticus nodded sympathetically, but his mouth twitched. "You don't say."
She squinted.
He hid his smile behind his coffee cup.
Betrayal, part two.
Trying to salvage dignity, she cleared her throat and asked, "Do you need help with anything today?"
"You sure?" he asked gently. "These past few days you looked like you were... on your way out."
She closed her eyes.
She would never live this down.
"...I'm fine," she sighed. "Really. Promise."
Her dad softened. "Then just rest today. Take it slow. Maybe read or something."
She nodded, relieved not to be pushed.
Back in her room, she climbed onto her bed with her apple juice and opened a book she'd been meaning to finish. Her energy wasn't fully back yet, she was definitely in that post-sickness haze where she felt weirdly hollow and floaty, but compared to the theatre she'd performed these past few days?
She was practically glowing with health.
Her phone buzzed, and she finally checked it.
A few missed texts from Will.
A meme from her brother.
Her father reminding her last night to drink water.
Nothing urgent.
She typed quickly:
She paused, then added:
Will responded in seconds.
She rolled her eyes.