Tavany
I wake before the sun—not because of light, but because silence has become impossible.
Something inside me refuses to rest.
It moves beneath my skin like a current, steady and insistent—a second pulse layered beneath my own heartbeat. Not foreign.
Not entirely mine.
My fingers twitch against the sheets, and the shadows answer instantly. They slide across the floorboards, stretching toward me as though they’ve been waiting for permission. They coil around my ankles, soft but alert, threads of living dusk responding to the smallest shift in my breath.
They have never obeyed this easily.
Not before.
Not before him.
The realization is both intoxicating and deeply unsettling.
I sit up slowly, letting my feet brush the cold floor. The room feels different in the early hours—edge
