Olivia's eyelids parted, and the morning light struck her as an affront. It filtered through the room with a hushed, golden serenity that felt entirely unearned, a cruel contrast to the jagged edges of her memory.
She lay paralyzed for a heartbeat. The silence was heavy and airless. In the quiet, a desperate, smaller version of herself tried to weave a lie: that the graveyard had been a mere fever dream, a trick of the midnight fog that would dissolve with the dawn.
But then came the breath—sharp and shallow—and the lie collapsed.
A rhythmic ache throbbed against her temples, keeping time with the frantic pulse in her throat. Her eyes felt scorched, weighted by the phantom salt of tears she didn't remember shedding. When she moved her fingers, they fluttered against the sheets, unsteady and treacherous.
It was no nightmare.
