By the time I returned to the dorm, the corridors of Ashwood had begun their nightly transformation—quiet no longer meant peaceful here. It meant expectant. The lamps lining the stone walls flickered with dull amber light, their flames twitching as though something unseen had passed too close. My footsteps echoed softly in the hall, and every sound—every creak of wood, every distant slam of a door—felt like it was directed at me.
I hesitated at the door to our room. My fingers hovered near the handle, and for a brief second, I considered walking past it—going somewhere else, anywhere else—but the exhaustion in my body pulled me inward like a riptide.
The door creaked open. Familiar shadows stretched across the floor. Ingrid was already there.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, her arms wr
