It came at 2am on a Thursday.
I know because Jax had fixed the camp's one functioning clock, a battered analog thing someone had hung on a tent pole, and I had checked it twenty minutes before because I couldn't sleep and needed something to look at that wasn't the treeline. 1:41am. Then I must have drifted without meaning to, sitting up against a root with Sera's book in my lap and Kael three feet away doing the same thing he'd been doing for hours, being awake and not making it a performance.
Then I was somewhere else.
Not a dream. Dreams have soft edges, the logic slightly wrong, the geography shifting. This was different. This was exact.
I was in the kitchen of the house on Thornridge's eastern edge where I grew up. The one with the window above the sink that never closed properly
