Morning comes without grace.
It arrives not with sunlight or the song of birds or the fragile peace of the day before—but with a punishing stiffness in Amelia’s neck, a dull, rhythmic ache behind her eyes, and the disorienting sensation of waking up somewhere she never intended to fall asleep.
The sitting room.
The couch is too small, its cushions offering no comfort. The thin blanket is half-tangled on the floor, discarded in the restless middle of the night. Iris is curled into the armchair opposite her, her hair a wild halo of dark tangles, her face tight and guarded even in the depths of exhaustion.
Amelia sits up slowly, every joint protesting. Her body feels heavy, as if it has been carrying the weight of the entire city through the night and has forgotten how to put it down.
