The room was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that invited sleep.
Not the gentle quiet that promised rest.
This was the kind of silence that pressed slowly against skin, patient and deliberate, as if waiting for breathing to become weaker.
Eala Sanchez lay motionless on her bed, the silk sheets slightly crumpled beneath her fingers where she had been gripping them without realizing.
The chandelier light outside her room flickered faintly whenever a passing car moved across the street below, its yellow glow sliding across the ceiling like something alive searching for cracks in the darkness.
Her eyes were open. Sleep was afraid of her tonight.
Or perhaps—
She was afraid of sleep. Because sleep carried dreams. And dreams were no longer safe.
Her chest rose and fell slowly.
Carefull
