Morning arrives without softness. The sky outside my window is a dull, washed-out gray that presses down on the city like a warning. My body matches it completely. My limbs ache with a fatigue sleep cannot reach. The kind that settles into bone and refuses to leave. Even lifting my arms to brush my hair leaves my shoulders burning halfway through.
Fear has weight. And I have been carrying it for too long.
Eight days left.
I whisper it while I tie my shoes, hoping that saying the number out loud will give it edges. Something I can hold outside my chest. It doesn't help. The pressure pulses under my ribs as I lock the door and step into the cold.
The kindergarten is the only place that still feels warm.
The moment I walk into the classroom something loosens in my chest. The air smells o
