James Rodriguez

Normal lives.

No whispers following them through corridors.

Emily was asleep when I returned to her room.

Her research notebook lay open on the bedside table, pages filled with her precise handwriting, diagrams of the stone circle, notes about the via two tribe-documented timestamps of each manifestation we'd witnessed.

I left her to rest and walked outside to the hospital's small courtyard garden.

The morning had advanced to full brightness, sunlight warming the stone benches where visitors sat with patients.

I found an empty spot beneath the flowering tree and called my bank to transfer $50 zero to Emma's account, enough to cover immediate expenses and secure legal representation if Wilson pursued his threats.

A nurse approached after I completed the call.

Dr. Johnson is awake and asking for you, sir.

Emily had managed to sit up straighter in bed.

Colour had returned to her face and determination to her eyes.

Wilson threatened legal action.

She asked without preamble.

As expected, I took the chair beside her.

Confidentiality agreements.

Intellectual property claims.

Standard intimidation tactics.

She nodded.

I've been documenting everything while it's fresh.

The pattern is remarkable, James.