The light kept flickering. That damn bulb again—buzzing like it was short-circuiting her head. It threw weird, twitchy shadows across the carpet, over the crayons, the couch, Ellie’s tiny feet tucked under her. Camille sank further into the cushions like maybe they'd swallow her whole. Ellie’s fingers—still in hers—were warm. Too warm. Her own palms were sweaty, slipping.
The room smelled like old coffee and eucalyptus, sharp and sour. A smell she used to love. Now it clung to everything, made it hard to think, hard to breathe.
I'm still here. Still here. But—what the hell is here anymore?
Her stomach twisted again. That old nausea, the one that started whenever people used words like sister or debt or file. Words that came with locks she couldn’t open. She tried to focus—on Ellie’s lit
