The minutes stretched into what felt like hours. James paced by the window, watching the sky pulse with increasingly frequent golden light. Andrew sat heavily in a worn armchair, his head in his hands. Miles remained by the fireplace, a sentinel of patience, his ancient eyes never leaving the four figures in the circle.In the bedroom, they could hear Lorraine's soft murmurs and Evans's occasional broken whispers. Samantha's breathing had become a shallow, rattling thing—the sound of someone holding onto life by the thinnest of threads.James stopped pacing. "How much longer?" His voice was tight, strained. "She doesn't have much time, Miles. You can hear it. We can all hear it."Miles didn't look away from the Harts. "I know. But this cannot be rushed. The trials must be completed on their own terms, in their own time. To interrupt now would be to destroy them—and any hope of saving Samantha along with them."Andrew lifted his head. "Can't we at least... I don't know, check on them?

Six hours passed in the quiet cottage.James paced by the window for the dozenth time, staring out at the golden-tinged sky. Andrew sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a cup of cold coffee. The four Harts hadn't stirred.James finally broke the silence. "Six hours. They've been asleep for six hours. Is that normal? Should we wake them?"Miles sat in his worn armchair by the fireplace, a blanket over his knees, his ancient eyes fixed on the sleeping forms scattered around his home. "They are not merely asleep, James. They are recovering. The energy they expended to save Samantha was immense—far beyond anything they have ever attempted. Their bodies and minds need time to replenish."Andrew looked up from his coffee. "But Samantha's awake now. She's going to be okay. Don't they need to know that?"Miles smiled gently. "They know. The bond they share allows them to sense each other's well-being, even in sleep. They can feel that Samantha is safe. That knowledge aids their recovery.

"You're looking better," Peniel observed as he walked into Joanne's room that morning, a routine that had become a disturbance to Joanne.Joanne ignored the pleasantry. "How much longer am I going to be here? I need to meet Jackson. I need to tell him everything I know about the facility, about my father, about Don Lewis's plans. Every hour we waste—"Peniel held up a hand, stopping her. "You're not going anywhere."Joanne stared at him, confusion flickering across her face. "What do you mean? I have information they need. I can help them stop—""You can help us." Peniel's voice was calm, almost conversational. "But not by running off to join the Harts. You'll be staying here. With me."Joanne's blood ran cold. She tried to read his expression, but his face revealed nothing. "I don't understand."Peniel leaned back in his chair, studying her like a chess player contemplating his next move. "Your father and I have a long history, Joanne. A score that has gone unsettled for many years.

All three of them turned to find James standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair still tousled from sleep, his eyes blinking in the bright light. He looked from Nancy to Andrew to Hailey with the confused expression of someone who had woken up in the middle of a conversation.Nancy's face lit up. "James! Perfect timing." She crossed to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint smear of flour. "We're making snacks. Your favorite."James blinked again, then sniffed the air. Recognition dawned on his face. "Are those—are you making cinnamon rolls?""Among other things." Nancy beamed, pulling him into the kitchen. "Sit. You look like you need sugar."Andrew snorted. "He always looks like he needs sugar. It's his default state."James ignored him, sliding onto a stool at the small kitchen island. "I'm not going to argue with that assessment. What did I miss?"Hailey slid the baking sheet into the small oven and turned to face them, wiping her hands on a towel. "Not much. Evans

The evening unfolded like a gentle dream.After the cinnamon rolls were devoured and the kitchen cleaned, everyone drifted into the main room of the cottage. Andrew found an old guitar in the corner and, after some prodding, played a few chords—badly, according to Hailey, who then took it from him and played beautifully. "Where did you learn to play like that?" Andrew asked, genuine awe in his voice.Hailey shrugged, a modest smile playing on her lips. "Music lessons as a kid. Self-taught, mostly."Andrew shook his head slowly, then a mischievous grin spread across his face. "You know, I have to give you your flowers."Hailey raised an eyebrow, still playing. "My flowers?""Yeah." Andrew leaned back, crossing his arms with exaggerated smugness. "Here I was, heroically attempting to entertain everyone with my terrible guitar skills, and you just casually sit there and show me up like it's nothing."Hailey laughed, the sound bright and genuine, mingling with the last notes of her song.