By the second week of treatment, Tristan could already sense the difference in his hands.
The numb heaviness that had once weighed on them had begun to fade, replaced by flickers of sensation—sometimes dull, sometimes sharp, but proof that life was returning to his fingers.
He no longer jerked back when Eira pressed along the joints. His grip had improved too. Now, he could lift a mug without spilling, curl his hand around a wooden handle, and even raise a teacup without wincing.
"Hold this," Eira said, handing him a slim stick of sanded wood. "It isn't a bow, but it will show us how your fingers rest."
Tristan stared at it. The stick was plain, nothing more than polished wood. Yet when he wrapped his fingers around it, something stirred inside him—an echo of movements buried deep in his memory.
"Feels… wrong," he muttered. "Too heavy. Or maybe I am."
"It should feel different," Eira said gently. "You're different now. Don't chase the old shape of yourself. Let the new one form."
Her words lodged in him, somewhere between comfort and fear.
By nightfall, they sat on the porch watching the stars scatter across the sky. The only sound was the occasional call of geckos from the rafters.
Tik-tik… tik-tik.
"This place is too quiet for my liking," Tristan said, shifting in his chair. "It makes me nervous."
Eira smiled. "That's how you know you're still healing—when peace feels suspicious."
Earlier that afternoon, she had set him to repetitive tasks: squeezing balls of clay, picking up pebbles one by one, stringing tiny beads onto a cord. His patience had worn thin quickly.
Whenever his fingers fumbled, he muttered curses under his breath. By the end of the session, he managed to knock over an entire tray of dried thyme.
"Even the herbs are out to get me," he grumbled, brushing the flakes from his lap.
"They're just upset you don't applaud after handling them," Eira replied dryly.
He paused, then asked more quietly, "Do you think I'll ever really play again?"
Eira didn't answer immediately. Instead, she pressed carefully into his forearm, coaxing the muscle to release. "I think you'll do something even better," she said at last. "You'll feel again. And that's where the music lives."
Her certainty left him both comforted and unsettled.
That evening, she introduced meditation. Breathe in and hold, then exhale slowly. Do it again. Repeat until your body listens. At first, Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Do I have to hum or something?"
"You're a musician. Pretend it's a key change."
He frowned. "What key?"
Her lips curved. "Stubborn minor, transitioning to cooperative major."
He let out a huff but closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, he was still mildly annoyed… but undeniably calmer.
Before they parted for the night, he asked softly, "Do you think Lord Shannon still wants to hear me play?"
Eira paused at the doorway. "I think… he's been listening all along."
The next morning, she surprised him.
"You've focused on your hands," she said. "But healing doesn't stop there. Do you want to try full-body treatment?"
Tristan hesitated. "I… don't have gold coins. Or rare heirlooms. What could I possibly pay you with?"
Eira laughed. "Play for me one day. That will be payment enough. Shannon takes care of the rest."
And so the next stage began.
She guided him through traditional pressure therapy—practices passed down through wolf-born healers, rooted in both instinct and anatomy. It started with his feet. She applied steady, gentle pressure to the soles, stimulating the nerves that traced invisible pathways up his spine.
From there, she worked up along the Achilles tendon, calves, and thighs. She avoided swollen joints but pressed into tight muscles just enough to coax them to breathe again. Then she focused on the lower back, her hands firm over the knotty bundle at the base of the spine, where years of pain and trauma seemed to linger.
Tristan shivered. "Does it always tingle like this?"
"That's the blood returning," Eira murmured. "Your nerves are waking up."
"I think my toes are arguing."
Eira chuckled. "They're just excited."
Her hands moved to his spine, shoulders, and upper back, slow and practiced, easing out layers of tension he hadn't even realized he carried.
By the end of the session, his limbs felt lighter. His back no longer hunched. His steps were straighter.
"You look taller," Eira teased.
"I feel… human," he admitted, surprised at his own words.
That evening, while folding laundry by the hearth, Tristan asked, "So what now? After full-body treatment… do I get a medal, or just more rules? Am I forbidden from bathing again?"
Eira chuckled. "Why do you think I'm the bath police?"
"Because every time I ask, you look like I'm about to jump into an ice pond."
"The same precautions apply," she said. "Warm baths only. No freezing cold water. And no scalding heat either. Your nerves are still delicate."
He blinked. "So I'm not banned from being clean? Because in the mining camp, let me tell you, bathing was optional. And the water was mostly… shame."
"You poor, smelly thing," she said with mock pity. "Yes, Tristan. You're allowed to be clean. Encouraged, even."
He leaned back in his chair, feigning seriousness. "What may I drink other than water?"
Eira narrowed her eyes. "What exactly did you drink for the last two years?"
"Water," he said. "One mug. For drinking, washing, rinsing… sometimes soup."
She winced. "Stick to warm drinks for now. No icy tea. No frozen juice. Your body's recalibrating —blood flow, nerve signals, all of it. Warmth helps."
"Understood. Tea, coffee, warm goat milk… but no iced wine cordial."
"Absolutely not."
He sighed dramatically. "Another dream crushed."
"And your sleeping posture?" she asked, raising a brow.
"Ah, yes. Do I have to sleep like a soldier? Flat on my back, thousand-yard stare?"
"Flat is best. Arms loose. No curling up or twisting sideways."
He narrowed his eyes. "You mean… no sad knot?"
"Yes," she said. "No sad knot. Let the body stretch out. Your nerves, joints, and blood flow need alignment. Think of it like tuning an instrument."
He blinked. "You make even sleep sound musical."
"You're a musician. That's all I've got."
As she gathered the bowls and cloths, she caught him again with the broom, bowing dramatically toward a pile of dust.
"I see we're back to the sweeping symphony," she said, arms crossed.
"It's called Ode to Crumbs in G Minor," Tristan said solemnly. "A moving piece. Very underappreciated."
"Next time, sweep the floor, not the air."
"No promises."
Eira shook her head, hiding a smile as she turned back to the fireplace.
And somewhere deep inside, Tristan felt it—faint but growing. A shape forming, not of the boy who had been broken, but of someone slowly, painfully, becoming whole again.