When I woke, the first thing I heard was the rain.
It wasn't soft anymore — it beat against the roof like a drum, steady and relentless. I didn't know how long I'd been asleep or if I'd been dreaming, but my body ached like I'd fallen from the sky. For a few seconds, I couldn't tell if I was dead or alive. Then the pain in my ribs answered for me.
The air smelled of antiseptic and smoke. Wood creaked softly under my weight. When I tried to move, a sharp pain tore through my shoulder, and I gasped. The sound echoed — small and fragile, like it didn't belong to me.
I opened my eyes slowly.
I was lying on a narrow cot, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of pine and rain. The room was dim — just one candle on a table, its flame trembling with every gust that slipped through the cracks in the walls.
It wasn't the inn.
