Standford
She looked like a child again.
Head resting gently against the window, her breath fogging up the glass in soft, slow circles.
Every few seconds, her lashes would flutter, like even her dreams weren’t safe.
But at least she was sleeping.
And for now, that counted.
She’d smiled earlier—small, unannounced, but real.
It felt like watching the first light of morning spill across a city after weeks of rain.
That smile didn’t last long, of course.
It never does with her. Not anymore.
I didn’t blame her. I just… missed it.
She let out a little snore. I blinked, then chuckled softly.
It wasn’t delicate, or cute. It was loud, full-bodied and messy.
Not very ladylike, though. Mrs. Williams would’ve had a field day.
“No self-respecting woman snores like a truck,” she used to
