Ivar
“Ivar…”
The whispers were faint at first, like the humming of the wind on a still night. A tremor ran down my spine.
I was just trying to sleep, to get some rest. But I should have known better. Sleep didn’t come easy these days. The voices grew louder and more insistent, wrapping around me and filling my ears with my father’s dying breaths.
It was the same scene, over and over again, like a curse I couldn’t escape. I relived it every time, trapped in the same moment.
And the worst part? My reaction never changed.
No matter how many times I saw it, how many times I felt it—I always froze. Always hesitated. Always failed.
“Ivar,” my father’s voice came again, weak and strained.
That was the first time I’d ever heard him sound like that—so fragile, so... mortal.
