The next morning, the sound of rain gently tapping against the window pulls me from sleep. It’s the kind of morning that makes you want to stay wrapped up in bed, hiding from everything. But I can’t hide forever—not from the journal, not from the thoughts swirling around in my head.
I glance at the journal on my nightstand. It's just sitting there, its weight almost daring me to open it again. But I can’t. Not yet.
Instead, I throw on a hoodie and head downstairs. The smell of pancakes drifts through the air, and for the first time in what feels like ages, something inside me softens. It smells like home.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Nanna greets as I walk into the kitchen. Her smile is gentle, but there’s something in her eyes that tells me she knows I didn’t sleep well. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” I
