I turned and saw Shannon waving at me energetically, her face lighting up in a broad smile when our eyes met. She was walking carefully with the help of a stick, her injured ankle still bound, her steps cautious.
She wasn't alone.
Beside her walked a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with the same flaxen hair and clear blue eyes as Shannon. The resemblance was immediate and striking—the same jawline, the same tilt to the smile, the same way they held their shoulders when they moved.
"Shannon, slow down," the woman said, her voice tinged with worry. She lengthened her stride, one hand half‑extended as if she expected her daughter to topple at any second. "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep limping like that."
"I won't, Mom. Stop treating me like a child already," Shannon said.
"A child would be more sensible than you're being right now," her mother shot back. "Do you actually want to tear that ankle again and spend another week stuck in bed?"
