Ayla’s POV
I shift back to human, shivering briefly as I pull on the clothes folded neatly in the corner.
I rub warmth into my arms, noticing the tiny details—the old scuff marks on the stone from last winter, the way the mattress sags where I always sleep.
The cave is simple but carefully made: a small mattress tucked against the wall, old blankets layered on top, and a wooden crate serving as a makeshift table. Candles, a few books stacked with care, and a small box—my box—where I keep everything that matters.
Each thing has its own story and memory: the scratchy blue blanket I bought at a yard sale with tips from my first week at the café, the battered paperback I found in the lost and found, never claimed, now read a dozen times.
“It’s not much,” I murmur.
“It’s enough,” Tala ans
