The emergency doors flew open so hard they rattled against the wall. 

"Trauma incoming!" 

The shout tore through the ward sharply and Ivy Byrne was already moving before the words fully registered. Charts were dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. The controlled hum of the hospital snapped into something louder and urgent. 

A gurney burst through the doors, pushed hard, its wheels squealing against the floor. 

"Male. Severe head trauma." 

"BP's unstable." 

"Clear a bay now!." 

Ivy fell into step beside the gurney, pulling on gloves as she moved. The man on it was unconscious, blood dark and sticky in his hair, his face frighteningly pale beneath it. There was a split at his lip, swelling already blooming along his cheekbone. His chest rose, but unevenly, like breathing itself was an effort. 

"Sir," a paramedic called loudly, leaning close. "Sir, can you hear me?" 

No response. 

Ivy's fingers found the pulse at his neck. It was weak. 

"Pressure's dropping," she said, voice steady even as her heart kicked up. 

"Get fluids in." 

"I've got him." 

Hands moved fast. Too many at once. Ivy focused on what was in front of her, numbers, rhythm and the body on the edge of slipping away. 

"Stay with us, sir," someone said again. "Stay with us." 

The words felt less like instruction and more like a plea. 

They reached the bay, transferring him in one fluid motion. Ivy helped secure lines, adjusted monitors, her movements were efficient and automatic. She'd done this a hundred times before. Still, something about him snagged her attention. 

"Any ID?" someone asked. 

"Name's Damon Hale," a voice answered from behind them. "Brought in with two others." 

Ivy didn't turn. Names came later. Survival came first. 

The monitor beeped with sharp sounds. 

"He's crashing." 

The room tightened. 

"BP's dropping fast." 

"Come on," another voice muttered. "Don't you do this." 

Ivy caught a glimpse of a man just beyond the curtain. He was tall and shaken with blood on his sleeve. He was injured, but upright, refusing a chair that someone tried to push toward him. 

"That's him," the man said hoarsely. "That's Damon." 

Victor was devastated.

She didn't know him but she recognized the way he stood still, like if he moved he might fall apart. 

"Sir, we need you to step back," someone told him. 

"I'm not in the way," Victor said tightly. "Just tell me what's happening." 

"We're doing everything we can." 

The words sounded rehearsed. Ivy hated that. She hated how empty they always felt. 

"Sir, can you hear me?" the doctor repeated, louder this time. 

Nothing. 

Ivy watched the monitor dip again, numbers sliding in the wrong direction. 

"Hold him steady." 

"I've got him." 

Her hands were on his arm now, grounding him, grounding herself. 

"Stay with us." 

The phrase echoed through the room, said by different voices, layered on top of each other like a chant. 

For a moment, just one terrifying moment, the monitor flatlined. 

Everything froze. 

Then- 

A heartbeat. 

A flicker. 

The line jumped. 

"There," someone said. "There we go." The room exhaled as one. 

"Okay," the doctor said. "Okay. He's stabilizing." 

Ivy didn't relax. Not yet. Stabilizing was fragile and temporary. It meant not dead, not safe. They worked for several more minutes, the tension slowly easing but never disappearing entirely. Finally, the worst of it passed. 

"He's stable," the doctor confirmed. "For now." 

Victor sagged visibly, one hand bracing against the wall. Ivy saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched them. 

"Can I see him?" he asked. 

"In a moment," the doctor replied. "He needs imaging first." 

Victor nodded once, jaw tight. "I'll wait." 

They moved Damon out of the bay once the immediate danger had passed. Ivy followed with a chart in hand, though she hadn't been assigned to him specifically. She told herself it was habit. 

The hallway was quieter. The machines hummed steadily now, no longer screaming alarms. 

Damon lay still on the bed, his breathing was more even, but still shallow. Ivy adjusted his IV, checking his vitals again. 

Damon Hale. 

The name surfaced, lodged somewhere in her thoughts. 

She frowned faintly at herself and pushed it away. 

Victor appeared again, refusing help for his own injuries, insisting on standing beside the bed. "What's his condition?" he asked. 

"Stable," the doctor repeated. "But unconscious." 

"How long?" 

The doctor hesitated. Ivy noticed that. 

"It's too early to say," he answered carefully. "The head trauma was severe. He may wake up soon. Or it may take time." 

"How much time?" Victor pressed. 

"Days," the doctor said. "Weeks. Possibly longer." 

Victor nodded slowly, absorbing the words like blows. 

"And the other?" he asked. "The driver?" 

"Alive," the doctor said. "Broken ribs. Fractured leg. He's in surgery now." 

Victor closed his eyes briefly. "Hmmm" 

Ivy watched all of this quietly, cataloging details she didn't need to remember but somehow knew she would. 

The way Victor stood too straight and the way his eyes never left Damon. 

Hours passed. 

The ward settled into its nighttime rhythm. Ivy's shift continued, duties pulling her away and then back again. 

She told herself she didn't need to check on him again. She did anyway. 

Damon lay unchanged, machines humming softly beside him. His face looked calmer now, stripped of urgency, almost peaceful. 

Almost. 

Ivy adjusted the blanket at his shoulders, careful not to disturb him.

"Several months wouldn't be unusual," she heard a doctor say quietly outside the room. 

Her hand stilled. 

"That long?" Victor asked. 

"Yes. There's no guarantee. He could wake tomorrow. Or not at all." 

Silence followed. 

Ivy pretended not to listen, but the words settled deep.

Several months. 

She looked at Damon again, really looked this time. 

He didn't look like a man who belonged to a hospital bed. He looked like someone paused mid-stride, caught between one moment and the next. 

She straightened, scolding herself silently. 

"This is unprofessional."

Later, when the lights dimmed further and the ward quieted to a low murmur, Ivy found herself back in his room one last time. 

Just to check the monitor, she told herself. And to make sure everything was steady. She moved softly, adjusting a setting, smoothing the sheet. 

His fingers twitched. 

It was small. Almost nothing. But she saw it. 

Her breath caught. 

"Sir?" she whispered, before she could stop herself. 

Nothing. 

She waited. Her eyes were fixed on his hand with her heart pounding. 

It didn't move again. 

Rationality rushed in. Probably muscle reflex and nerve response. It meant nothing. She told herself that as she stepped back and forced herself to leave the room. The door clicked shut behind her. 

But long after she returned to her duties, the image lingered in her mind. 

"Why do I feel this way?" She asked herself.

–

Sound came first. 

Too many sounds. Sharp, overlapping, crashing into each other without rhythm. A horn blaring too close. Shouting. Someone swearing. Glass breaking like it kept shattering long after it should have stopped. 

Then pain. 

This pain was everywhere and nowhere at once, a heavy pressure pressing inward, squeezing thought out of him before he could name it. 

Damon tried to breathe. 

His chest refused. 

Something was wrong. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness didn't lift. It pressed back instead, swallowing him whole. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Like he was reaching for it through water. 

Voices floated in and out. 

"-call it in-" 

"-blood pressure's dropping-" 

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" 

Hear. 

Yes. He could hear. He wanted to say that. He wanted to say I'm here but his mouth didn't move. Everything spun and slammed sideways. Pain flared hot and bright, then dulled again, retreating into a deep, echoing throb. 

This is how it ends, a distant part of him thought. Darkness surged up again and swallowed everything. 

When awareness returned this time, the sounds were different. He heard rhythms. A steady beeping somewhere close, too regular to belong to the outside world. Air moved across his face, it felt artificial, cool and dry. 

He was lying down. 

That realization came slowly, as if his mind had to negotiate for it. His body felt heavy and pinned in place. He couldn't move his arms. Couldn't move his legs. He tried anyway, sending the command, waiting for his body to obey. 

Panic stirred suddenly. 

Move. 

Nothing. 

Move. 

Still nothing. 

His heart rate spiked, and the beeping nearby responded, quickening as if mocking him. Voices again. Clearer this time, though still distant. 

"He's stable." 

"Any response?" 

"None yet." 

Yet. 

That word lingered. 

Damon tried to focus on it, on what it meant. Stable meant alive. Alive meant not finished. Not yet. 

Something touched his arm. He felt the pressure.  

"We're here," a voice said, closer now. It sounded professional. "You're not alone." 

He wanted to laugh at that. Or scream. Or do anything to prove he was still himself in here, wherever here was. 

But his body remained silent. He drifted in and out. Sometimes there were voices. Sometimes there was nothing at all. Sometimes pain surfaced, sharp enough to remind him he existed before fading again into a numb, floating haze. 

He learned the rhythm of the beeping and the cadence of footsteps. He learned the difference between day and night by the quality of sound in the room, not by sight. 

He heard names. Doctors. Nurses. Once, just once, he heard Victor. "...he'd hate this," Victor's voice said. "Just lying here." 

Damon tried to respond. He tried to reach for that familiar presence. The effort drained him, pulling him back under before he could even begin. 

The darkness welcomed him again. 

There were moments when he thought he was dreaming. Fragments slipped in vividly. Colors where there should have been none. Then warmth. The faintest scent of something sweet, a floral scent. 

He dismissed it at first. 

Brains did strange things when injured. He knew that. He clung to logic the way a drowning man clung to wreckage. But the fragments kept returning. 

Yellow. Pink. White. Purple. Soft and pale, like sunlight caught in petals. A breeze brushing his cheek, gentle enough to feel intentional. It wasn't the sterile air of machines, but something alive. He felt grass under his fingers.  

That was new. 

He tried to focus on it, but it slipped away, replaced by the steady beeping again. The hum of electricity and the faint murmur of voices. 

"You think he can hear us?" 

"It's possible." 

"Talk to him anyway." 

A pause. 

"Damon," someone said. "If you can hear me, you're safe." 

Safe. 

The word felt hollow. 

Because somewhere deep inside him, something was shifting. Sliding as if the ground beneath his awareness was no longer solid. The name from the dream surfaced again. 

Jeffrey. 

It didn't feel foreign anymore. It felt close. Closer than it should have. 

Damon tried to push it away. He was Damon Hale. He knew who he was. He knew where he belonged. New York. His gallery. The painting...the painting... 

Her face appeared behind his closed eyes with startling clarity. It wasn't flat like paint. She was alive and breathing. Her green eyes fixed on him with an expression that made his chest ache. 

"Don't you remember me?" 

"I don't," he tried to say. 

The words didn't leave his mouth. They didn't need to. The world tilted again, gently this time. The beeping stretched, slowed, distorted, until it no longer sounded mechanical at all. The voices faded into a distant hum, then into nothing. 

The scent returned. Stronger now. 

Flowers. 

He felt sunlight on his face. Real sunlight. He felt the solid press of ground beneath him.  

Earth. 

His fingers twitched. This time, they moved. The realization hit him with a jolt of something close to terror. He could feel his body again. 

He drew in a breath and it came easily, filling his lungs without resistance. Clean and fresh air. His heart pounded without pain this time but with shock. 

This isn't possible. 

He opened his eyes. 

Color exploded into existence. Green stretched endlessly around him vibrantly. The sky above was clear and blue. Flowers dotted the landscape in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Primroses. 

He pushed himself upright, staring down at his hands. They were his and also not his. Younger, somehow. Unmarked. Strong in a way he didn't remember being. 

His clothes were wrong too, it wasn't modern. It was just a simple fabric with no impeccable tailoring. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. 

"This isn't real," he said aloud. 

His voice sounded different. It was altered. As if it belonged to a version of him he had never met. 

A shadow fell across the grass. 

He looked up. 

Someone stood a few steps away, a young man slightly older than him riding on a horse. Relief flooded his expression as he sighted him. 

"There you are, Jeffrey." The young man said. 

He stood slowly, his instinct and memory colliding. 

"I've been looking all over for you". The young man said again gently. 

A name settled into him like a key turning in a lock and it clicked. 

Patrick. 

"Aye! Patrick, the weather is quite friendly today, I thought I might bask in its warm embrace." Jeffrey said. 

"Do not tarry too long now cousin, for there's much to be done." Patrick replied. 

"I shan't." Jeffrey said. 

And somewhere, far behind him, the world he had known fell completely silent. 

–

(Ireland, Early 1800s) 

The morning sun had barely begun its climb when Jeffrey O'Connell stepped down from the carriage, the crisp air of the Irish countryside filling his lungs. His cousin Patrick Doyle, eager as ever, adjusted his coat and peered toward the small village ahead. Both young men had been traveling the roads near their family estates, but this particular morning promised something different, a brief respite from the weight of aristocratic expectations, or so Jeffrey hoped. 

"Surely," Patrick said, glancing at him with a smirk, "today shall present some amusement. One cannot endure the ceaseless dullness of the manor without a touch of distraction." 

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow. "Amusement, you say? Pray tell, Patrick, what form might that take on a morning such as this?" 

Patrick chuckled, puffing out his chest. "One never knows until fortune reveals herself." 

Jeffrey only shook his head and let the reins fall into his hands, allowing the carriage to roll slowly along the uneven cobblestone path. He found no amusement in forced curiosity, he preferred observing rather than seeking spectacle. 

The village came into view. Quaint cottages, a small market square, and the aroma of freshly baked bread drifting on the wind. Patrick noticed a young woman at work in a garden just outside a low, whitewashed cottage. Her red hair glimmered in the sunlight, her pale skin almost glowing against the green of the plants, freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. She bent gracefully, tending to the strawberries with care, humming softly to herself. 

Patrick's eyes immediately brightened. "There! Do you see her?" he whispered, leaning forward. 

"A vision, Jeffrey. Surely, the most enchanting creature this countryside holds!" 

Jeffrey frowned, more out of habit than judgment. "Patrick, must you always speak so loudly of what little you understand?" 

Patrick ignored the reprimand, tipping his head in admiration. "She has the colour of autumn leaves upon her hair, and a grace I have not encountered elsewhere. Observe, my dear cousin, observe how the very sunlight seems to favour her." 

Jeffrey merely tilted his head, studying the girl without judgment. There was a serenity about her that caught his attention. It was a natural, unpretentious presence that made him pause. She was not laughing nor performing for anyone. 

As they neared, the woman glanced up, catching sight of the approaching carriage. Jeffrey noticed the subtle lift of her eyebrows, the fleeting wariness that accompanied polite curiosity.  

Patrick, undeterred, called out in a cheerful tone, "Good morrow, fair lady! Might we trouble you for the name of this enchanting village?" 

The woman straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Good morrow," she said, her voice soft but clear. "You are near Ballymore, sir, though few travelers find themselves so far before the day is fully begun." 

"I am Jeffrey O'Connell," Jeffrey said, inclining his head. "And this is my cousin, Patrick Doyle. We are visitors to your humble village." 

Her eyes were green and unyielding in their curiosity, lingered on Jeffrey. "You travel well and speak politely, Master O'Connell. I am Maeve," she said, offering a small nod, "Maeve O'Rourke". She added, turning to Patrick with an air of polite caution. 

"Patrick Doyle, at your service," he said, bowing slightly. "I am a humble admirer, should fortune grant me your acquaintance." 

Maeve's lips curved in a restrained smile. "It is courteous to admire without overstepping, sir. That much I value." 

Patrick's face fell slightly at her lack of immediate awe. Jeffrey, observing the scene, could not help but stifle a small laugh at his cousin's predictably grand gestures. 

"Master O'Connell," Maeve addressed Jeffrey directly, "and may I ask, do visitors often linger near gardens so early, admiring work not yet finished?" 

Jeffrey tilted his head thoughtfully. "I find that beauty, when one encounters it honestly, merits attention regardless of hour. It seems to me that your care for this garden is remarkable." 

Maeve paused, studying him with faint curiosity. "Remarkable, you say? Perhaps it is only necessary labour, sir, and yet you make it sound extraordinary." 

There was a pause, brief but weighty, during which Patrick shifted impatiently, sensing he had been overshadowed. Jeffrey, however, simply smiled lightly in recognition of her character. She had substance, wit, and independence. The qualities Patrick had yet to discern in any of his other acquaintances. 

"I would not speak lightly of such matters," Jeffrey replied. "You tend these plants as one would tend to... well, the very threads of life itself. A dedication most rare." 

Maeve's cheeks warmed faintly. "You are kind, Master O'Connell. Most men your age would offer idle flattery, yet you speak with honesty." 

Patrick bristled. "Truth, Maeve, is ever more appealing than flattery, is it not?" he interjected, attempting to regain the spotlight. "I assure you, my admiration is of the deepest sincerity." Maeve's gaze softened ever so slightly, yet Jeffrey noticed the glimmer of amusement in her green eyes as she considered Patrick's words. She remained cordial, but it was clear to Jeffrey that her attention was not entirely captured by his cousin. 

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "the measure of sincerity lies not in grand claims, but in actions taken quietly. Do you not agree, Master O'Connell?" 

Jeffrey inclined his head. "Entirely. And your agreement is noted with appreciation." 

Patrick's jaw tightened. "Surely, your words are as elusive as the wind, Miss O'Rourke." 

Maeve shook her head lightly, returning to her work in the garden. "I find truth in simplicity, sir. Not all words require weight to carry meaning."

Jeffrey watched her hands, deft and careful among the flowers. For a moment, he forgot to speak, content merely to observe. Patrick, beside him, shifted restlessly, unable to remain so still when his obsession had been denied attention. 

The carriage bell rang, signaling the need to depart. Jeffrey and Patrick stepped back, bowing slightly to Maeve. 

"It is a pleasure, Miss O'Rourke," Jeffrey said earnestly. "I hope our paths may cross again." Maeve nodded politely. "I should think it is possible, Master O'Connell. Fate has a way of guiding the willing." 

Patrick's face flushed, a mixture of irritation and disbelief. He had been denied the focus he expected, and now the subtle charm of Jeffrey had begun to take hold. 

As they drove away, Patrick muttered, "She barely looked at me. How does one compete with such composure?" 

Jeffrey smiled faintly, focusing on the passing landscape rather than his cousin's grievance. 

"Perhaps one does not compete. Perhaps one observes and learns." 

Patrick scowled. "Observe? That is scarcely action. One must act to win her favour, cousin." 

Jeffrey's eyes lingered on the village in the distance, the memory of the girl in the garden etched firmly in his mind.

"Time," he said quietly, "will reveal the actions that truly matter." 

Patrick did not respond, already plotting some grand gesture, while Jeffrey remained thoughtful, feeling a peculiar tug he could not yet name. There was a lightness in her presence, a warmth in her gaze, and an honesty that made his usual cynicism falter for the first time in many years. 

By the time they returned to the carriage's comfort, Jeffrey found himself stealing another glance toward the village, towards Maeve's cottage. Patrick was jabbering on about plans for the next opportunity, about gifts and displays, but Jeffrey barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, following a girl he had only met once, whose green eyes seemed to linger in his memory far longer than common courtesy or chance should allow. 

And in that moment, Jeffrey realized that though he did not yet admit it even to himself, that Maeve O'Rourke would be no ordinary acquaintance. She had entered his life quietly, without fanfare, and yet, her presence already stirred something profound within him. 

Patrick, oblivious to Jeffrey's contemplation, continued plotting and fussing, entirely unaware that his cousin's fascination was more than amusement or fleeting curiosity. Maeve, had begun to occupy the most unexpected corners of Jeffrey's thoughts.

–