Five days passed in a blur of white walls and sterile routine.
The infirmary became my world, waking to pale morning light filtering through high windows, choking down bland porridge that tasted like paste, enduring checkups from healers who prodded my arm with cold fingers and muttered about "remarkable recovery" while I sat there wishing they'd just let me leave already.
My left arm still ached when I moved it too much, the muscles weak and uncooperative, like they'd forgotten how to work together.
But it worked. The fingers bent. The grip held, even if it wasn't as strong as before.
Good enough.
On the sixth day, they cleared me.
"Take it easy," the head healer said, her tone stern as she scribbled something on her clipboard. "And if you feel any numbness or sharp pain, you come back immediately."
"Got it."
She stared at me for a long moment, then eventually she signed the discharge form and thrust it toward me.
I took the paper and left before she could change her mind.
