The sun rose and set over the concrete skyline, entirely indifferent to the fact that Roxy's universe had just violently ended.
Days passed on Earth. They did not pass with the majestic, sweeping grace of the Beastworld seasons. They dragged by in a dull, agonizing blur of artificial lights, ticking clocks, and the relentless noise of city traffic.
Monday bled into Tuesday, and Tuesday dissolved into Wednesday. The world kept spinning, completely oblivious to the ghost haunting the small, third-floor apartment.
Roxy was forced to navigate her terrestrial life while carrying a crushing, unbearable depression.
The immediate, physical reality of her body demanded her attention, refusing to let her simply lay down and waste away. She was entirely alone, stripped of Syris's cooling magic, Caspian's healing waters, and the skilled hands of the mountain midwives.
She had to tend to her postpartum wounds in complete, isolating secrecy.
