A deafening crash rips my attention from the history book sprawled across my lap. My head snaps toward the foot of Ariah’s bed, my heart inside my stomach. There, in the middle of discarded clothes and old notebooks, lies a shattered vase of daisies. Pale petals scatter across the floor while water seeps between the floorboards, tracing slow, snaking lines as if deciding where to go. The faint smell of damp earth fills the room, mingling with the musty scent of laundry and the ever-present aroma of coffee grounds from Ariah’s corner.
I toss the book aside and slide off the bed, my feet barely making a sound on the floor. As I inch closer to the mess of crushed glass and wilting flowers, something moves in the recess of my vision. Before I can react, a shirt whips through the air, grazing
