32
Private ward, John Radcliffe Hospital. Oxford, England. A week later.
Morgan opened her eyes, this time with clarity. She had felt the darkness ebbing and flowing, a comforting sleep of drugs and exhaustion that had kept her under. Her dreams had been a freak’s gallery of bones, demons and the rotting face of a little girl, buried in splintered corpses, but now she felt ready to wake up.
The hospital room was small but tastefully furnished in moss green and sky blue and the window looked out onto the spired city of Oxford.
She was home.
There were flowers on the table and cards, including a hand-drawn one with a little girl holding roses on it. At least that’s what it looked like. Morgan smiled at the thought of her niece coloring carefully for her Auntie and she felt a pang of nee
