Hope's POV.
The silence is deafening.
It presses in from every side, thick and heavy, like the mist curling outside the windows. My ears ring from the absence of sound — not even the whimper of pain or the shuffle of footsteps. Only the slow, unbearable echo of my heartbeat, thudding in my chest like a drum of mourning.
My head hangs between my knees. My hands tremble. They’re slick with blood.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here.
There’s something under my fingernails. Something sticky, dark, and wrong. My arms, my clothes, my hair — all of it smells like iron and bile and death. The stench clings to me, seeps into my bones. I think I might vomit again, but there’s nothing left to bring up.
My breath hitches. My heart aches.
My senses are on fire — too sharp, too loud. I
