Evelyn woke before dawn with the wrong kind of awareness—too sharp, too immediate. Her throat felt tight, as if she’d swallowed something unfinished, and when she shifted beneath the sheets the room tilted, then corrected itself a second too late. She lay still, breathing shallowly, letting the nausea rise and crest like a tide she knew how to read.
Not new. Not alarming. Just… persistent.
She sat up slowly, one hand braced against the mattress, testing equilibrium the way she tested language in a hostile room. The floor steadied after a moment. Her stomach didn’t. She waited it out, jaw clenched, until the sensation retreated to a manageable hum.
Control, she thought, required more effort now.
By the time she arrived at the office, the morning had settled into its usual sterile rhythm
