Emilia's stand
As if the mountains themselves were holding their breath, the morning arrived without ceremony. No alarms, no urgent footsteps, no raised voices. Just the gradual thinning of darkness as pale light slipped through the safe house’s narrow windows, stretching across bare walls and settling gently on the scarred wooden table where Emilia sat alone. The house smelled faintly of pine, old stone, and something metallic—memory, perhaps, or fear that had soaked into the walls long before they ever arrived.
She cradled a cup of tea between her palms, though she had forgotten when she poured it. The steam was gone now, the surface of the liquid dull and unmoving. Her mind refused to slow. Thoughts collided and overlapped, circling the same truth again and again, as if repetition mi
