9
I woke in a different bed. The sheets were cool and white and tucked in too neatly, like something from a hotel. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My eyes flicked around the room, panic blooming low and hot in my chest. The walls were soft beige, which was not the color of my room. The ceiling was intact. There was no soot and no broken candles, also no mirror circles scorched into the floorboards.
Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains. Everything felt too perfect.
I sat up slowly. My thighs ached, and my lips were dry. I touched my neck, half expecting to find a handprint or burn, but there was nothing. Nothing but my skin.
Then I saw the envelope on the nightstand in thick, cream paper and just my name on the front in heavy black ink.
Nia.
I reached for it with shaking fingers
