As for Aiden’s wife, she moved out the next day. The neighbors said she didn’t take much—just two suitcases and a dog-eared photo album. She never replied to Maya’s message. That was okay. Some wounds didn’t need reopening. Some apologies weren’t owed.
Maya took her time. She rested more. Trained less. Slowly, she found a rhythm again. Her body was different now—scarred, unpredictable—but her will was intact. One afternoon, she laced up her shoes, walked to the track, and ran a single lap. Just one. It wasn’t much. But it was hers.