Sasha’s POV
Morning didn’t break—it crept.
Like the world wasn’t sure I was ready for light.
Golden strands slipped cautiously through the frost-glazed window, filtering between snow-laden pine branches outside. The light was soft, almost reverent, painting the room in warm ribbons of honey and gold. It slid across the wooden floor in shy beams, brushing against the foot of the bed as if asking permission to touch me.
It smelled like winter and woodsmoke. Like life.
I blinked slowly, my lashes crusted with salt and sleep. Every inch of my body ached—not with the sharp shock of fresh agony, but with the heavy, relentless throb of survival. My ribs ached beneath the tight bandages. My back stung with every breath. I was bruised, burned, and broken in places that could not be stitched.
