Alice’s POV
I woke before the sun did, not because I had slept well or deeply or peacefully, but because grief had a habit of waking early and revenge didn’t believe in rest.
The sheets beside me were cold, untouched, just like they had been every morning since I returned home without the heartbeat that had once made me hope for something soft inside this world full of steel and smoke.
I didn’t cry.
I had cried enough.
Now, every breath I took was a decision every step, a declaration.
Because mourning was no longer enough.
They didn’t just take my child.
They reminded me why women like me were born with fire in our lungs and war stitched into our ribs.
Today was not for softness.
It was for structure.
I rose slowly, not because I was tired, but because every inch of movement now
