Chapter 16 - The Alpine Air
The air in the Swiss Alps was different. It didn't carry the heavy, industrial tang of the Great Lakes or the lingering scent of damp concrete and burning diesel that had haunted my lungs for years. Up here, perched high above the idyllic village of Zermatt in a chalet carved from centuries-old larch and stone, every inhalation felt crisp, clean, and impossibly light.
Three months had passed since we left Buffalo behind.
The estate in New York was a distant memory, its heavy iron gates now locked against the wind while independent foundations managed what little legitimate capital remained. Here, there were no guards at the perimeter, no security cameras scanning the treeline, and no lieutenants knocking on the door with crisis reports.
There was only the silence of the mountains, the distant chime of cowbells drifting up from the valley pastures, and the steady, miraculous sound of Julia breathing.
I stood on the wide wooden balcony of the chalet, wrapped in a heavy wool sweater, watching the morning sun catch the snow-capped peak of the Matterhorn. The golden light spilled across the valley, turning the pine forests into ribbons of emerald and amber.
Behind me, the sliding glass door clicked open.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The light, measured footsteps on the hardwood floor belonged to her.
"You're going to catch a chill out here," Julia's voice drifted across the balcony—clear, smooth, and lacking that terrifying, brittle rasp that had haunted our first night in the east wing.
I turned and smiled. She stood in the doorway, wearing a cream-colored cashmere cardigan, her cheeks flushed with natural color. The oxygen concentrator was gone, replaced entirely by healthy lung function and the pristine air of the Alps. The only reminder of the nightmare in Buffalo was the faint, silvery trace of pressure lines near her nose, which were fading week by week.
"I have enough insulation," I chuckled, stepping forward to wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of lavender and mountain wind. "How are you feeling this morning?"
Julia rested her hands against my chest, her fingers curling into the wool of my sweater. She took a deep, exaggerated breath, smiling up at me with those luminous eyes that had once made me forget every rule I ever lived by.
"My doctor in Geneva called yesterday," she said softly, her voice dancing with quiet triumph. "Pulmonary tests came back. My capacity is up to sixty-four percent. He said if I keep hiking with you every afternoon, I might be back to normal by next year."
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A profound, swelling wave of relief washed over me. Sixty-four percent. From twenty-eight percent on a deathbed in Buffalo to sixty-four percent in the heart of Switzerland.
"We'll hike every mountain in this canton if we have to," I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Every single one."
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