Hope's POV.
The sky outside is the color of ash.
Muted gray clouds roll low across the treetops, casting the forest in a dull, bruised light. Rain hasn't come yet, but I can smell it in the wind — sharp, earthy, like a promise half-kept. The storm hovers on the edge of the world, holding its breath. So am I.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, my hands limp between them. My clothes are neatly folded beside me — black, of course. As if the color could somehow be enough to match the weight in my chest. As if mourning could be wrapped up in fabric and made to look proper.
I haven't slept. Not really. I closed my eyes and drifted in and out of a haze where memories clawed at me from all sides — Morgana’s scream, the boy’s still body, the sting of grief laced into every breath
