The morning arrived quietly, without ceremony, as if the world itself was trying not to disturb what had already been fractured.
Ayla woke up with a dull heaviness pressing against her chest. For a moment, she did not know where she was. The ceiling above her felt unfamiliar, the light too bright, the air too still. Then memory returned in fragments, sharp and disordered. The hospital. Silas's eyes. His voice, cold and cutting. The silence afterward. The way she had cried until exhaustion dragged her into sleep.
She turned her head slightly and glanced at the time.
Past ten.
Her heart lurched violently.
She pushed herself upright too fast, dizziness washing over her as panic flared. Her first thought was Silas. Was he awake. Had he eaten. Did he need medicine. Did he need help. The fear that she had failed him again wrapped tightly around her throat.
