Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 17:Welcome back party

Skylane — Point of View

They wheeled me to the curb just after lunch, the sky that washed-out blue that happens after a storm. Discharge took all morning—paperwork, signatures, a last neuro check. Dr. Mendoza crouched to my eye level before I left.

"Short outings only. No crowds. No alcohol. Lights low. If the headache spikes or you feel dizzy, you stop. Rest is medicine," she said, tapping a handout. "Occupational therapy will keep working on one-handed dressing and writing. Speech therapy will help with memory strategies. You're not broken—you're healing. Be patient with your brain."

I promised I would try. The promise felt slippery in my mouth.

Blaise waited by the car, hands jammed in his pockets like he didn't know what to do with them. He'd brought me soft, loose clothes that slid over the cast easily—the OT had shown me how to manage sleeves with one arm, and I did most of it myself. He didn't hover, but he stayed close enough to catch me if the curb tried something.

"Ready?" he asked.

No. "Yeah."

He opened the passenger door, buckled me in because I fumbled the latch, then climbed in and turned the radio down to barely-there. The city blurred by at a speed that made my stomach behave. He hit every speed bump like it might bruise me. It was ridiculous and also kind of...kind.

We turned into my street. My chest tightened. Home, but not exactly—home the way a photograph is almost the moment but not the moment.

"Small surprise," Blaise said, reading my face. "Approved by your parents. Doctor-friendly. If it's too much, give me the word and I'll clear it."

The gate swung open, and I knew what he meant. Our garden was strung with soft white lights, even though it was daylight; the glow made the air feel gentle. A handful of people—family, the boys, Joy—stood spaced out on the grass, not crowding. Someone had set up a mic and a small speaker near the hibiscus hedge, the volume low. Plates held cut fruit and little sandwiches. It wasn't a party; it was a welcome that knew not to shout.

My mother reached me first, careful of the cast as she wrapped me up. My father's hug came next, solid and brief. Joy hovered with that look she got when she wanted to fix everything.

"Breathe," she mouthed.

I did.

"Hey," Blaise said quietly. He lifted a small bouquet from a chair—yellow tulips, sunny in a way that made my throat feel tight. "For you."

"Thank you," I said, and the words felt bigger than flowers.

Then he stepped back, nodded once to the boys, and the music began. Not loud. An acoustic guitar, a cajón tapping heartbeat slow. Blaise's voice came in steady and warm—no showboating, just carrying the melody like it mattered. I recognized the song from somewhere hazy in my mind, enough to know the line when it came, his eyes flicking to mine for just a second: no place I'd rather be. Six words, and the space between them felt like breathing room.

It wasn't about me being on display. It felt like the opposite: like everyone had agreed to hold the moment still so I could land inside it.

When they finished, there wasn't a cheer so much as a murmur of approval, a clatter of soft claps. Someone whooped once and got shushed by three different people.

Blaise crossed the grass and handed me the tulips properly. His fingers brushed mine—cool, quick. He didn't try for anything more. Relief and disappointment crashed into each other and left a fizzing ache behind.

"Welcome back," he said.

"Thank you," I said again, because I didn't have a better phrase for the way my ribs had loosened.