The clock on the nightstand read 8:17 a.m.
Freya sat there for a bit longer, the robe hanging loosely around her shoulders. The conversation with Irene still echoed in her mind, each word pressing into her like a bruise. She rubbed her temples, willing the tension away.
She had no time for this. Not today.
“Work,” she muttered to herself, as though saying it out loud would root her in the human routine she’d built.
Her legs felt heavier than they should as she crossed to the wardrobe. She dressed quickly — a soft cream blouse, charcoal pencil skirt, hair swept back into a neat bun. The motions were automatic, but each step took more energy than it should. She caught herself leaning on the wardrobe door for a second too long, her breath hitching faintly.
You feel that, don’t you? Irene
