When I woke, the world wasn’t soft or bright. It was heavy. The weight pressed down on me, drowning me in shadows. My throat was raw. My skin was clammy. Something sticky tugged at my nightdress, and when I tried to move, a sharp sting bloomed at my side. I gasped, but it was nothing more than a rasp.
I blinked. At first, I couldn’t see anything. Then shapes slowly came—slanted beams of morning light leaking through the curtains, shadows cutting across the floor, a blur of color at the edge of my vision.
I wasn’t in my bed.
Cold wood under my cheek. Closed walls around me. The air felt stale. My fingers brushed against the edge of my skirts, and I realized—I had crawled into my closet. Like the child hiding from monsters as they were hurting her mother. Except the monster had been real
