Friday morning arrived like a verdict.
Emma had slept — finally, deeply, dreamlessly. The exhaustion of seven days of memories had pulled her under around 11:00 PM, and she hadn't stirred until her alarm screamed at 6:00 AM.
She woke up different.
Not healed. Not whole. But different. The memories were no longer cracks in her mind — they were rooms she had walked through. Dark rooms. Painful rooms. But rooms she had survived.
She showered. She dressed in a soft gray sweater and black pants — not armor, not today. She left her hair down. She wore no lipstick.
She looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back at her had survived a k********g. Had forgotten it. Had remembered it. And was still standing.
Three days left, she thought.
Three days to decide what comes next.
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At 8:30 A
