**Poppy’s POV **
I don’t sleep, not properly. I lie on my narrow bed in my grease-scented shoebox of an apartment, staring at the ceiling while the takeaway downstairs rattles and clatters like it hates the concept of silence.
Every time I start to drift off, the fog presses closer. A hungry awareness at the edges of my thoughts, like something pacing in the dark, waiting for me to open my eyes.
The warm voice stays with me too, quiet and steady. Like it’s watching, waiting for something and letting me know I’m not alone.
“Tomorrow,” it whispers at some point.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Somewhere close to four in the morning, I sit up and decide that if I can’t sleep, I might as well do something useful. Which, apparently, is my brain’s polite way of saying spiral with purpose.
I finish pac
