EMMALINE
This morning, I wake to the faint sound of birds outside the window.
It takes me a moment to remember where I am again.
The ceiling above me isn’t stone but wood, uneven and warm-toned, the kind that carries the faint smell of pine sap. The curtains ripple softly with the morning breeze, and sunlight spills across the bed, painting the sheets in shades of gold.
For a long time, I just lie there, staring at the play of light and shadow. It feels strange—this peace. My body doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Every part of me is waiting for a door to slam open, for footsteps to echo down a hall, for a voice to summon me.
But nothing comes.
Maggie must have been here earlier. There’s a tray of food beside the bed—a loaf of bread still warm enough to release faint wisps of st
