Twenty Nine
The morning presses in heavy, like the house itself knows what happened last night.
I wake to the low hum of wards threading through the walls, an invisible static I’ve grown too used to. They’re always there, even when I try to ignore them, and this morning the buzz feels louder. The air tastes sharp, metallic, as if the wards themselves know I tested them.
I roll onto my side. Bella’s still asleep in her bed across the room, curled on her side with the blankets tangled around her legs. Her blonde hair spills across the pillow in messy strands, her lips parted in the deep sleep only children seem capable of. For one fragile moment, my chest softens. Then the guilt returns—sharp, brutal.
We almost made it. Almost. And now we’re still here, trapped.
I swing my legs over the
