Sleep never came.
The sleet and snow had stopped hours ago, leaving the estate wrapped in that peculiar stillness that only followed storms, where every sound felt amplified because nothing else dared to interrupt it. The moonlight spilled through the window in pale silver bands, striping the ceiling above me, but my chest felt anything but calm.
I thought about getting up. About grabbing my journal, about pouring my thoughts out somewhere safe and contained. But even my pen wouldn’t have known where to start. Writing it down would make it real in a way I wasn’t ready to face.
Instead, I stared at the moonlight creeping across the floor and let the truth settle—slow and unwelcome. So, I lay on my back, staring upward, my thoughts looping relentlessly—breath, pause, proximity, restraint.
