Chapter 116 : Spring Returns

Chapter 116 : Spring Returns
Nadya POV 

The first crocus of spring pushes through snow in late February.

I find it on my morning rounds, small and purple and defiant. Spring made visible. 

“Look,” I tell Kira, who’s walking with me. “Winter’s ending.” 

“About time,” she says, but she’s smiling. “I want to be warm again. Growing. Stuff that isn’t gray and frozen.” 

“Aren’t we all.” 

Winter was hard. Longer than I expected. Colder than I remembered from my own childhood. The healing wing full all through it—trauma cases multiplying as the dark months gave people nothing to do but sit with their pain.

We lost three patients to suicide this winter. Rescued five who came close enough we could get to them in time. Helped dozens more learn to live with scars that would never fully heal.

By winter’s end, I’m emotionally exhausted. Not physically—I’ve worked through all my burnout protocols from training. But just holding space for that much trauma and loss and failure, even when you’re trained to do it? It takes a toll. 

But it’s almost over. I can feel it in the air. See it in that crocus. Feel it in the growing bond as San’s anticipation rises.

Construction will resume in two weeks. The children’s center will break ground. Something good will rise from frozen earth. 

“Ready to go back?” Kira asks. We’ve wandered further than we intended, both enjoying the weak sunlight and the promise of warmth.

“In a minute. I want to sit with this for a moment longer.” I kneel by the crocus. “It was underground all winter. Waiting. Forcing roots into earth we couldn’t see. Growing while it looked like nothing was happening. Now it can come up.” 

“Is there a metaphor in there somewhere?” 

“Probably. I’m not good at metaphors.” I push myself back to standing, brushing snow off my knees. “But I think winter taught me something. About rest being productive even if it looks like nothing. About growth happening in darkness before it’s visible in light.”

“You sound like San.” 

“He’s rubbing off on me. Months of him sending letters talking about patience and cycles and letting process do its thing.” I start to walk back to the healing wing. “But he’s right. Winter felt like nothing. Felt like failure a lot of the time. But there was growth happening under the surface.”

“You mean more than flowers.” 

“Probably. Winter forced me to slow down. Accept that I can’t save everyone. Accept that I can’t heal everyone’s wounds. Accept that my value isn’t tied to my success rate. I thought I knew that. Had trauma therapy groups to make sure everyone did. But I guess I hadn’t internalized it for myself.” I think of Torren. Of the others I failed. “That was hard. Is still hard. But necessary.” 

We reenter the healing wing. Patients wait for us, some new, some from continuing treatment, all carrying pain we can witness more than solve.

I work through the day, hold space, offer warmth, sit with suffering I cannot fix.

By the time evening comes, I’m spent. But it’s a clean exhaustion. A purposeful tiredness from work that matters. 

San finds me in my room, painting by lamplight. I’m working on a series—a winter landscape across canvases, the ice melting, color returning, life returning from a season of death.

“These are beautiful,” he says, studying the half-finished canvases.

“They’re therapeutic. Expressive. Painting what I can’t always put into words.” I add detail to a melting icicle. “Winter was hard.” 

“It was hard for both of us. But it’s over.” He sits down on my bed beside me. “Thornton said this morning they’ll start construction next week. Ground’s thawed enough, the weather’s holding, and they’re actually going to finish this.”

“We are.” 

“I’m nervous. What if we do something wrong? What if the design doesn’t work the way I planned it? What if children don’t feel safe there despite everything we do?”

“Then we adjust. We learn. We fix what needs fixing and make stronger what’s weak. We make it better.” I set down my brush. “Nothing’s perfect the first time. But it’ll be good. And good is enough.” 

“You sound like Elara.” 

“She sounds wise. I’ll take that comparison.” I study him—my brother who left as a general and returned as a scholar, who spent winter finalizing the designs and learning patience. “You’re ready for this. The plans are solid, the vision is clear, trust yourself.”

“I’m trying.” 

“Try harder.” 

He laughs. “When did you become the confident one?” 

“When winter forced me to accept my limitations and still do my best within them.” I return to my painting. “I can’t save everyone. But I can show up every day and try. That has to be enough.” 

“It is enough.” 

“Then the same is true for you. You can’t design perfect buildings. But you can design good buildings and refine them as you learn. That’s enough, too.” 

We sit together as I paint and he sketches notes to refine interior design elements. Two siblings who both survived the war, learning to make beauty in the aftermath of destruction. Grown separately but together, changed by distance but stronger for it.

Spring returns not with fanfare but with quiet persistence. Crocuses multiply. Snow melts. Ground thaws. Nights grow longer each evening. 

And with spring, construction returns. 

Day crews return to the site the week before construction resumes, and I walk over to watch. San is already there, supervising foundation work with Thornton, checking measurements, going over questions of angles and depth.

“There,” Thornton says, pointing. “That corner. Doesn’t look right.” 

San studies it. Pulls out his calculations. Frowns. “You’re right. The angle’s off by two degrees. We’ll have to adjust before we pour more stone.”

“Will that delay the project?” 

“Three days. But better three days now than structural problems later.”

Thornton nods approval. “You’re learning. Slow and right beats fast and wrong.” 

I watch them work. Watch other wolves join—some who fought in the war, some who were too young to fight, all working together to make creation instead of destruction.

This is what we fought for. This exact moment. People working together to build something that matters, arguing over angles and measurements instead of tactics and lives, making instead of just surviving.

Worth it. Every scar. Every nightmare. Every piece of childhood lost. 

Worth it to stand here and watch spring return and buildings rise and children’s futures take shape in stone and wood and careful planning.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mira materializes beside me. 

“It is.” 

“You made this happen. You and San. Refused to let the war be your only legacy.”

“We’re still working on what that should be.”

“This is a good start.” She squeezes my shoulder. “The healing wing has saved dozens already. This center will save hundreds. Maybe thousands over the coming decades. That’s legacy worth having.” 

I watch San adjust measurements. Watch workers set stones with painstaking care. Watch something beautiful rise from frozen ground. 

Spring returns. 

Life continues. 

And we build.