Dawn sat up slow, limbs heavy, head foggy.
She was confused. Blinking against sunlight that poured in too bright, too golden. Lisbon.
Right.
Her eyes flicked to the clock.
Twelve hours.
Twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
She couldn’t remember the last time her body let her do that.
Her stomach growled—a deep, angry sound that made her laugh hoarsely. She was starving. Bone-deep hungry in a way that felt almost… hopeful.
Dawn Jackson had nowhere to be. No rounds. No pages. No alarms.
Lisbon was waking up outside her window—and so was she.
“Alright,” she whispered to no one. “Let’s see what this city’s got.”
But first… food.
The streets were already alive by the time Dawn stepped out, sunglasses perched on her nose, hoodie thrown over a pair of leggings like armor. The air was cool, crisp—the kind of morning that hinted at the heat to come. Cobblestones stretched out in every direction, sunlight bouncing off azulejos—those signature blue and white tiles she’d only ever seen on Pinterest boards.
Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and she laughed.
“Alright, alright,” she muttered, scanning the street.
She walked with no real direction, letting her feet decide—passing bakeries already open, the smell of warm bread curling around her like a hug. A tram clattered past, yellow and charming as hell, packed with tourists pointing cameras at everything.
She kept walking.
Past tiled buildings with laundry flapping from iron balconies. Past an old woman sweeping her stoop, who nodded once and muttered something soft in Portuguese. Dawn nodded back, the gesture familiar, even if the words weren’t.
It felt… good. Just walking. Just being.
A corner café caught her eye—small, tucked between two crumbling buildings, with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. No menu posted. Perfect.
She grabbed a table in the sun, smiling awkwardly at the waiter. “Café e… uh…” She scanned nearby tables. “Surprise me.”
The waiter grinned. “Very good, senhora.”
Dawn exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair.
The waiter returned with coffee and something Dawn didn’t recognize—golden, sugar-dusted, the size of her palm.
“Bola de Berlim,” he smiled. “Try.”
One bite and the creamy custard burst over her tongue, so rich she groaned out loud. “Oh… yeah. Dangerous.”
The waiter laughed from somewhere behind her, pleased.
She wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t shoveling down cold hospital coffee or skipping meals entirely. She just… ate. Sipped her coffee. Let the city move around her.
Lisbon was louder now—children running past, couples strolling arm in arm, locals arguing gently over tiny espresso cups.
Dawn pulled out her phone—reflex—and hovered over her email app before shoving it back down.
No. Not today.
Today, she wasn’t Dr. Jackson. She wasn’t anyone’s daughter or friend or caseworker. She was just… a woman in Lisbon, eating a pastry that might ruin all other pastries for her.
She sat there until her coffee was gone; face tilted toward the sun.
Eventually, she stood—body looser, mind clearer.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s see what else you’ve got, Lisbon.”
The Gulbenkian Museum wasn’t far—she’d passed a sign for it earlier. And hell, what else did she have to do?
Dawn walked.
Past wide boulevards, sleek stores, and then into a pocket of quiet green—a sprawling garden she hadn’t expected. She smiled, slipping through the gates.
The museum was beautiful—modern lines, warm wood, and glass that caught the sky. But inside… it was the art that hit her hardest.
Paintings. Tapestries. Sculptures older than anything she’d ever laid eyes on.
She moved slow, reading every plaque, staring too long at oil paintings of women with solemn eyes and stiff dresses. At Islamic art—delicate calligraphy, intricate tiles that pulled her breath from her chest.
When she finally sat down in the museum café, her legs ached, but it was a good ache. Earned.
She ordered more coffee. Something sparkling. Ate a sandwich so simple and fresh it made her want to cry.
And she thought about her mother’s words—don’t lose the thread.
The thing was… she wasn’t sure what the thread even was anymore. What did it mean to be Dawn Jackson when she wasn’t chasing down diagnoses or fighting for patients?
Who was she… without the white coat?
The thought rattled her.
But instead of running from it, she sat there, sipping slowly, staring out at Lisbon until the sun began its slow slide toward the horizon.
Maybe that was the point of this whole thing—not finding herself, but… losing the parts that didn’t fit anymore.
And when the waiter came by to clear her plate, she smiled easily and said, “Obrigada.”
Tomorrow, she’d wander further.
But today?
Today, she’d remembered how to breathe.
And for now, that was enough.
