The world drifted in and out like the surface of a fever dream. The hum of the car motor was a constant lull, cutting through the thick veil of rain that battered the windshield. Mary’s skin was cold, her hair slicked to her cheeks, mud caked to her knees. The stranger’s scent—a mixture of wool, rain, and something sharp, like pine—filled the cab. He clutched the steering wheel with knuckles pale against the dim dashboard light, glancing at her with concern etched clear in the lines around his eyes.
She tried to sit up straighter, but her limbs trembled, her breath shaky. Each inhale was laced with the memory of her mother’s words—it stung worse than the scrapes on her legs. Outside, the world blurred by in shadowy smears. The man kept his eyes mostly on the road, but every few moments he’d glance over at her, checking for signs that she might drift away again.
“I’m taking you to the edge of Kingston. The hospital’s not far,” he said quietly, as if he feared startling her. “Do you need me to call someone?”
“No.” Mary’s voice was weaker than she’d intended, but it steadied as she spoke again. “No one.”
He didn’t press, only nodded, face illuminated by the dashboard’s ghostly blue. The radio played low, a woman’s voice crooning of heartbreak and longing. Mary pressed her forehead against the cool glass, letting the vibration of the engine and the song’s mournful refrain coax a fragment of calm into her battered mind.
The car slowed. Streetlights replaced the wild flashes of lightning, stretching their yellow arms across dripping rooftops and shuttered shops. Mary blinked, recognizing the edge of Kingston: the old bakery with boarded windows, the faded mural of King Arthur and his sword—her secret, reckless hope. Was Arthur here now? Or had he already left for the palace, tethered by duty and tradition?
The car rolled to a gentle stop just outside the hospital’s entrance. The man turned to her. “You should see a doctor. You took a nasty fall.” His gaze lingered, searching her face for something—a sign of trust, maybe, or permission to press further.
Mary hesitated. Inside, past the sliding doors, nurses bustled and phones rang. She could almost imagine Arthur’s voice, warm and quiet, coaxing her inside. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep until the pain ebbed. But the thought of Arthur—of a chance, however slim, to see him again—kindled something fierce in her chest.
“I’m all right,” she lied, forcing herself upright. She fumbled for her bag and slung it across her shoulder. The man watched her, concern warring with the urge to respect her wish.
“Are you sure?”
It was the first time in hours that someone had asked her what she wanted, not what she had to do. A strange gratitude flickered through her. “I have to go,” she said softly, almost to herself, as she unlatched the door. Rain still fell, gentler now, a cool kiss on her aching skin.
She stepped out. The world was hushed, the hospital lights stark against the gloom. The man lingered in the car, engine idling. Mary could feel his gaze on her as she hesitated at the curb. Ahead, the road forked—one way toward the hospital’s embrace, another deeper into Kingston, and, possibly, toward Arthur. The sky was just beginning to lighten, a thin thread of silver behind the clouds, promising neither safety nor certainty.
Behind her, the car door opened. The man stepped out, rain beading on his coat. He held out his hand, tentative. “Take care, miss. The city’s not always forgiving.”
She met his eyes, her heart hammering with fear, hope, and stubborn resolve. The future was a blur, but she knew one thing, as surely as the rain washed the night clean: if she wanted Arthur, she would have to walk forward, uncertain and alone, but on her own terms.
A voice, familiar and urgent, cut through the hush from across the street. “Mary!”
She froze, torn between the stranger’s concern, the safety of the hospital, and the calling voice—a voice she recognized, trembling with longing and promise. The next step mattered more than any before.