AMANDA
I died. Right?
I mean there’s no reason for me to survive that fall. The wind ripped me apart. The ground should have shattered me. Bones broken. Skull cracked open. Blood staining the rocks below.
However, my body is aching. I swallow, throat raw, tongue thick in my mouth. My body feels wrong. Heavy. Slow. Weak.
I try to move—everything aches. My ribs, my legs, my fingers. The blanket over me feels too thick, too heavy, pressing me down.
Where am I?
The door creaks open. I go still, breath locked in my throat as a figure moves inside. An old woman. Small, wrinkled, wrapped in layers of thick fabric. She carries something in her hands, the soft clink of ceramic cutting through the quiet.
She stops at my bedside. Her gaze pins me down. “ Y-You’re awake. Thank goodness!
Som
