Hospital fluorescents buzzed overhead like a swarm of wasps.
Linda sat beside Alex's bed, unmoving, her eyes on the slow drip of the IV. His shoulder was bandaged. His pulse steady.
But she hadn't slept.
Couldn't.
Because the dreams had returned.
Not fragments.
Full reels.
And with them—truth.
—
In her mind, it played again:
The wedding hall.
Roses and violins.
Her father's voice whispering, *“You make me proud."*
Alex in a black tuxedo.
The glint of something cold in his eyes.
Then—
The explosion.
The fire.
The blood.
Alex, standing outside the flames, smirking.
Just before she blacked out.
—
Linda jolted from the memory, gasping.
The locket around her neck felt heavier than ever.
She clutched it.
And finally—
Finally—
The clasp gave way.
Inside: two tiny photo
