Meanwhile, in the barracks—
The air smelled of antiseptic and metal.
Isabella adjusted the cuffs of her uniform as she walked down the corridor, her steps measured, professional. Years had shaped her into something steady—her posture straight, her eyes calm, her movements precise. This was no longer the girl who once trembled under the weight of loss. This was Nurse Isabella Rossi, hired by the military not out of charity, but reputation.
The best in her set.
The captain walking beside her glanced at his tablet. "You're new," he said, not unkindly.
"Yes, sir."
"Transferred from civilian service?"
"Yes."
He nodded once, satisfied. "You'll do fine here."
They stopped at the nurse's station. A few heads turned. Curious glances lingered, then returned to work. The military hospital did not have time for gossip.
The captain handed her a file.
"ROOM FOUR," he said. "Injured soldier. Your first assignment."
Isabella took the file, fingers brushing the cover.
"What's the injury?" she asked calmly.
"Field-related. Classified mission. He's stable, but not cooperative."
She gave a small nod. "Understood."
The captain hesitated, then added, "He's been… difficult with staff. Keep it professional."
Isabella offered a faint smile. "Always."
---
Room Four was quiet.
Too quiet.
The door was half-closed. Isabella knocked once before entering, her voice gentle but firm. "Nurse Rossi, here for your check."
No response.
She stepped inside.
The room was dim, curtains drawn halfway, sunlight cutting across the floor in narrow lines. Medical equipment hummed softly. On the bed lay a man turned slightly away from the door, one arm heavily bandaged, his frame unmistakably military—broad shoulders, rigid even at rest.
Isabella glanced at the chart.
SERGEANT X. HERNANDEZ
Her eyes skimmed it without reaction.
She had learned long ago not to attach meaning to names.
She washed her hands, snapped on gloves, and moved closer.
"Sergeant Hernandez," she said. "I'm here to assess your condition."
Silence.
She checked the monitors, adjusted the IV, her movements practiced and confident. As she reached to check his pulse, he shifted slightly.
"Don't need help," he muttered.
His voice—
Isabella froze.
Not outwardly. Not visibly.
But something deep in her chest tightened.
She had heard that voice before.
In another life.
In another time.
Her hand stilled for half a second—then continued.
"Humor me," she said evenly. "It's my job."
He scoffed softly but did not resist.
She checked his vitals, her gaze deliberately fixed on the chart, not his face. She could feel him watching her now.
"You're new," he said.
"Yes."
"Most nurses quit on me after a week."
She adjusted the bandage on his arm, careful, precise. "Then I suppose I'll disappoint you."
Something about that made him huff a short laugh.
It startled both of them.
Isabella swallowed.
She finally looked at him.
Time seemed to fold in on itself.
His hair was shorter, his face harder, lines etched by years of exhaustion and duty. There were scars she didn't recognize. Pain she couldn't name.
But his eyes—
Her breath caught.
Brown.
Familiar.
Xavier looked at her.
Really looked.
And frowned.
For a moment, something flickered across his face—confusion, curiosity, an ache he couldn't place.
"Have we met?" he asked slowly.
The question landed like a blade.
Isabella's pulse roared in her ears.
Years. Years and years and years.
Eviction. Silence. Forgetting. Survival.
She had imagined this moment a thousand times.
This was not how it was supposed to feel.
"No," she said quietly.
The lie tasted strange on her tongue.
Xavier studied her face, searching.
"I don't know why," he said, rubbing his temple with his good hand, "but you feel… familiar."
Isabella stepped back, professionalism snapping into place like armor.
"Pain and medication can cause confusion," she said calmly. "You should rest."
She turned toward the door.
"Wait," he said.
She paused, hand on the handle.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"Your name," he said. "You didn't say it."
She hesitated.
Just for a breath.
"Rossi," she said. "Nurse Isabella Rossi."
Something in his chest shifted.
He didn't know why.
But the name echoed.
She left the room before either of them could say more.
Outside, Isabella leaned briefly against the wall, her composure finally cracking just enough for her to close her eyes.
Room Four.
Of all rooms.
And inside it—
Was the past, breathing.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But Otilla D'Este's carefully built silence had just been broken.
And time, patient and relentless, had finally brought them face to face again.