Isolde stepped out of the bathroom after puking her guts out—same shit every morning. As always, peppermint tea was waiting on the nightstand beside the bed. The only thing she could stomach this early.
She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the warm tea in both hands. Her thoughts drifted again to the dream she kept having—night after night.
She always felt the same thing: a hand resting gently on her head… another on her belly. Like some twisted comfort while she tossed and turned in her sleep. The circular motion of fingers, a whisper so soft it was almost nonexistent she could never make out the words.
And whenever she tried to open her eyes, to catch whoever it was—if it were even real—the hand on her stomach would slide up to her face, covering her eyes, forcing her back into sleep like she didn't have a fucking choice.
