A few days passed, and life in the packhouse became a careful routine. Alex and Evan had taken it upon themselves to visit my room frequently. I knew their intentions—they wanted to help me regain some semblance of my old self—but their efforts were met with my usual distant response: a nod, a shake of the head, or a barely audible acknowledgment whenever they tried to engage me in conversation. I felt numb, hollow, as though emotions had been drained from my body entirely.
“Freya, you’re probably bored being stuck in your room all day,” Alex said one morning, her voice tinged with worry. “Why don’t we go shopping? Just for fun?”
I closed the book I had been reading and considered her suggestion. Normally, I would have refused immediately, but with nothing else occupying my day, I decide
