Raven
I stared at the plywood covering what used to be my front window and felt something hollow settle behind my ribs.
The shop felt smaller without the light.
That window had been my favorite thing about this place—how the morning sun spilled across the wooden floors, how it warmed the spines of books and made dust motes dance like something alive. Now it was just… blocked. Sealed. Muted.
Like me.
I sat curled on the leather sofa in the sitting area with a blanket tucked around my legs, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the table. The electric fireplace crackled softly, too cheerful for how wrong everything felt. I’d turned it on out of habit, the same way I’d wrapped myself in the blanket—muscle memory pretending to be comfort.
Silence pressed in from every direction.
Ever since
