The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee was too perfect. That was the first sign that the world was a lie.
Nala sat at the small wooden table in the sun drenched kitchen, watching the man she called her husband move with a grace that felt choreographed. He turned, smiling at her, his eyes warm and filled with a simple, uncomplicated love. It was the kind of life people wrote poems about quiet, safe, and utterly mundane.
"You're drifting again, honey," he said, setting a plate in front of her. "Eat. You have a big day today."
Nala picked up her fork, but her hand froze. A sound was bleeding into the room. It wasn't the sound of the morning birds or the distant hum of traffic. It was a rhythmic, metallic ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Do you hear that?" Nala asked, her voice sounding th
