He never came back.
Viola became aware of that gradually, the way she became aware of everything in those strange hollow days, in fragments, through the fog of pain and sedatives and a body that was healing at its own pace and nobody else's.
She couldn't move. Couldn't open her eyes. Couldn't speak. She could only lie there and register the world in pieces, careful hands cleaning her wounds without roughness, warm soup fed through a straw, quiet efficient voices doing their jobs around her without cruelty.
No cruelty. That alone felt strange enough to notice.
One time the doctor's voice came close, calm and unhurried.
"The swelling in her eyes is from the blood gathered inside them. She may not be able to see clearly again without glasses or surgery." A pause. "Unfortunately we cannot operate. Werewolves have never needed specialized eye medicine, our healing manages such things naturally. There are simply no doctors trained for this in our world."
