The hum of the jet’s engines pulsed through the cabin, steady and unwavering, but inside, everything felt like it was unraveling. The pressure in my chest hadn’t lifted since Dr. Zaraki had spoken those words. I wasn’t human. That fact refused to settle, circling in my mind like a vulture over a dying thing, waiting for me to accept the inevitable.

  I kept my hands in my lap, fingers curling into the fabric of my coat, trying to hold onto something real. The air inside the cabin felt thick, too controlled, pressing against my skin like a weight I couldn’t shake. I swallowed hard, trying to form the words I needed, but my throat was tight, my breath uneven.

  I turned to Dr. Zaraki, my voice quieter than I intended, yet strained with everything I couldn’t contain. “What… what do you mean I’m not human?”

  Dr. Zaraki sat across from me, his posture composed, his gaze steady but not unkind. His fingers rested loosely against his lap, a stark contrast to how tightly I was holding myself together. “Exactly what I said,” he answered, his tone calm, deliberate, as if he understood that anything stronger might shatter what little balance I had left.

  It wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t enough. My fingers clenched, my breath hitched, and I shook my head, forcing myself to speak. “I don’t—” I exhaled sharply. “I don’t understand.” The words felt small, as small as I felt, sitting in this cabin surrounded by people who knew more about me than I did. “Please.” I barely heard my own voice. “Tell me what I am.”

  Something shifted in his expression, something almost imperceptible. Not hesitation, not cold detachment—something else. Concern.

  “You have been through more in the last thirty-six hours than most people endure in a lifetime,” he said, his voice quieter now, patient in a way that made my chest tighten. “You have lost your home, your family. You have fought for your life. And now, your very identity has been called into question.”

  His words settled over me like a weighted blanket, pressing into the exhaustion I had tried to ignore. I glanced down at my hands, pressing my thumbs together to keep them from shaking. He was right. It hadn’t even been two days since the monastery burned. Since everything changed. The weight of it all threatened to crush me, and for the first time, I felt just how tired I was.

  “You need rest, Erika,” he continued, the certainty in his voice making it harder to argue. “Your mind is exhausted, and I do not wish to burden you with more than you can carry right now.”

  I wanted to protest, to tell him that rest was the last thing I needed. I needed answers, needed something solid to hold onto. But as I inhaled to argue, I hesitated. I could feel it, the exhaustion gnawing at my edges, making my limbs feel heavy, making my thoughts spiral into places I couldn’t control.

  Still, I tried. “But I—”

  He lifted a hand, not as a command, but as a quiet gesture of understanding. “I will answer every question you have,” he assured me, his voice carrying a quiet weight, a promise. “But not here. Not now. You need time.”

  I swallowed hard, staring at the seat in front of me. I wanted to push back, to tell him that I didn’t need time—I needed something concrete, something to make sense of everything unraveling inside me. But the truth was, I didn’t think I was ready to hear whatever came next.

  I pressed my palms against my thighs, grounding myself in the warmth of my own skin. “…Okay.” The word barely made it past my lips.

  Dr. Zaraki gave a small nod, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze before he leaned back in his seat. I turned toward the window, watching the night stretch below me, the clouds soft and shapeless beneath the distant city lights. The world looked the same. The same lights. The same sky.

  But it wasn’t. I wasn’t. And I didn’t know if I ever would be again.

  Time blurred somewhere between exhaustion and the steady hum of the jet’s engines. I wasn’t sure when I had drifted into a half-sleep, but when I opened my eyes, the cabin was dim, and the world outside had changed. The sky beyond the window was no longer an endless stretch of black—it had softened into a deep, inky blue, the first hints of distant city lights scattered across the horizon.

  I shifted slightly in my seat, feeling the stiffness settle into my limbs. The past few hours had been a tangle of restless thoughts, looping and unraveling, never quite settling long enough for me to process them. I wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since Dr. Zaraki had spoken those words—since my world had tilted into something I couldn’t name.

  I wasn’t human.

  The realization still didn’t fit. I could feel it pressing at the edges of my thoughts, circling just beyond my grasp, but it wouldn’t sink in. It just… sat there, weightless and impossible.

  The seatbelt light chimed softly overhead, followed by the smooth, professional voice of the pilot. “We’re approaching Eastern Iowa Airport Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Estimated landing in five minutes.”

  I straightened slightly, the shift in altitude making my ears pop. Through the window, the city below came into view, sprawling out in glowing threads of gold and white, stretching farther than I had ever imagined.

  Cedar Rapids wasn’t a massive metropolis, but from up here, it still looked endless. Roads wove through neighborhoods, businesses flickered with life, and the river carved its way through the city like a dark ribbon beneath the streetlights.

  I had seen a city before—once, briefly. But not like this.

  The monastery had been small, contained, its walls closing the world in around me. Even when I had left its gates, even when I had traveled beyond its reach, my world had still felt… defined. But out here, looking down at all of this, there were no walls. No boundaries. Just an open stretch of life that went on forever.

  The jet dipped lower, gliding smoothly toward the runway. Dr. Zaraki unbuckled his seatbelt in a fluid motion, his expression unreadable as always. Across from me, Dr. Volkova adjusted the cuffs of her blazer, composed and steady, as if this were nothing more than routine. Staroko remained quiet, focused ahead.

  The shift in altitude pressed against my chest, making my stomach twist slightly. I exhaled slowly, flexing my fingers against the armrest.

  “Do you need anything before we land, Erika?” Dr. Volkova’s voice was soft but direct.

  I hesitated, not because I didn’t know how to answer, but because I wasn’t sure what I needed. A moment to breathe? A way to stop my mind from spiraling? Something solid to hold onto?

  Instead, I just shook my head. “No.” The word barely made it past my lips, but she didn’t press. She only nodded.

  The jet touched down smoothly, the wheels rolling against the tarmac with a low, steady hum. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my pulse slow but uneven as the aircraft taxied toward the private terminal. The outside lights cast long shadows across the pavement, illuminating the quiet section of the airport reserved for private flights.

  The engines powered down, leaving behind a strange, heavy silence.

  Dr. Zaraki stood first. “Come. We have a drive ahead of us.”

  I hesitated only a moment before unbuckling my belt and standing. My legs felt stiff as I followed them toward the exit.

  The cabin door opened, and the cold rushed in like a breath of ice.

  I sucked in a sharp inhale, unprepared for how bitter it was. It curled through the open doorway, slipping beneath my coat, sharp against my skin. Even before stepping outside, I could feel it creeping into my lungs, pressing against my ribs.

  Dr. Zaraki descended the stairs first, moving with unshaken ease. I swallowed hard and followed, each step down making the cold worse, until my boots finally touched the pavement.

  It was bitter. The kind of cold that didn’t just sit on the surface, but sank deep, curling through muscle and bone. The wind carried the sharp scent of jet fuel, mixed with something metallic and crisp, a distinct kind of clean that only existed in wide, open spaces like this.

  The tarmac stretched out around us, too open, too vast. Even with the distant glow of the terminal lights and the faint movement of workers in the background, the space felt… unnatural. Not in a way that meant something was wrong, but in a way that meant I had never been anywhere like this before.

  A black Chevy Tahoe sat parked in the lot beyond the terminal, sleek and unassuming, its surface dark enough to blend into the night. I had no idea what I had been expecting—an escort, security, something official—but the quiet way we moved across the tarmac, unbothered, unseen, felt strangely normal.

  Staroko pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocking the vehicle with a quiet chirp before sliding into the driver’s seat. Dr. Zaraki moved without hesitation to the front passenger seat. Dr. Volkova waited, holding the door open for me, watching as I climbed inside before following suit.

  The warmth inside the SUV was immediate, the heated seats pressing into my back as I buckled my seatbelt. I hadn’t realized just how cold my hands were until I curled them against my sleeves, letting the artificial heat sink in.

  Staroko pulled onto the road, the headlights cutting through the dark as we left the airport behind. I turned my head slightly, watching as the runway lights faded into the distance, swallowed by the night.

  I wasn’t sure where we were going.

  But wherever it was, I was already too far in to turn back.

  The SUV rumbled steadily beneath me, the smooth hum of the tires against the pavement filling the cabin in place of conversation. The world outside the window was nothing but darkness at first—long stretches of empty road, the occasional glow of highway lights casting fleeting beams across the snow-dusted fields. The stillness of it felt familiar, like the quiet halls of the monastery at night.

  But then, the darkness gave way to something else.

  The first scattered lights appeared in the distance, faint at first, then multiplying—clusters of golden glow stretching out along the horizon. The closer we drew, the more the landscape changed. What had been open land became paved streets, what had been silence turned into something alive. Streetlights stood in long rows, illuminating roads that wove between buildings taller than anything I had ever stood beneath.

  I pressed my fingers lightly against the glass, watching the city grow around us.

  Cedar Rapids.

  I had heard of it before. Seen it on an atlas, but I had never been here. Not like this. Not seeing it in person.

  Even at this hour, the streets weren’t empty. Headlights wove through intersections, blinking neon signs flickered against the buildings, distant figures moved along sidewalks wrapped in heavy coats, their breath visible in the glow of streetlamps. The sheer movement of it all was staggering. There was no pattern, no rhythm to follow—just motion. The monastery had been structured, predictable, every day measured by prayer and silence.

  This was something else entirely.

  The city pulsed with life. It never stopped.

  A faint flicker of blue and red reflected off the glass as we passed a police cruiser idling at an intersection. Further down the street, a twenty-four-hour diner stood on the corner, its yellow glow spilling onto the pavement as a handful of people sat inside, drinking coffee, laughing softly in the warmth beyond the glass. A late-night bus rumbled down the opposite street, steam curling from the exhaust as it pulled away from a stop.

  They didn’t know I existed.

  That thought hit me harder than I expected.

  I had spent my life in a monastery, training for a purpose I didn’t fully understand, hidden away from the world. And now, I was here, watching people go about their lives, completely unaware of me or the truth I had just learned.

  I turned my gaze downward, watching my own reflection in the window—pale, unfamiliar in the dim light. Did I even look different now? Was there something in my face that gave me away?

  Did it matter?

  I exhaled slowly, pulling my coat tighter around myself as the SUV slowed at a red light.

  Dr. Volkova was the first to break the silence. “What do you think of the city?”

  I blinked, the question pulling me from my thoughts. I turned slightly, unsure how to answer. I wasn’t even sure what I felt. It was overwhelming, foreign, too much and not enough at the same time.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “I…” I hesitated, looking back at the streets. “It’s… big.”

  Dr. Volkova’s lips twitched in something close to amusement.

  Beside her, Dr. Zaraki was watching me carefully, his expression unreadable. “It is,” he agreed simply.

  The light changed, and Staroko guided the SUV forward, merging onto another road. The cityscape continued to unfold, more buildings, more streets, more signs of a world that had existed far beyond my reach.

  I tore my gaze away, settling back against the seat. I needed time to process everything. But time wasn’t something I had.

  Because soon, the city would fall behind us, and we would arrive at wherever home was supposed to be.

  The city had vanished behind us, swallowed by the dark. The further we drove, the quieter everything became. The roads stretched longer, the spaces between streetlights growing wider. Buildings thinned, giving way to rolling stretches of land, their silhouettes barely visible beneath the moonlight.

  Something about this felt different.

  I pulled my hands deeper into my sleeves, pressing them against my lap to keep them still. The warmth inside the SUV should have been comforting, but it did nothing to settle the unease curling in my stomach.

  A sign flickered past, catching the headlights.

  SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation Headquarters – Restricted Access Beyond This Point.

  I sat up slightly, my pulse tightening.

  The road curved, the trees thickened, their branches reaching overhead to form a tunnel of shadows. Another sign came into view, standing beside a security checkpoint. A long metal barrier stretched across the road, blocking the path forward. A guard booth sat beneath a floodlight, casting harsh white light over the pavement.

  The SUV slowed to a smooth stop.

  Staroko pressed the button for the window to slide down. The uniformed man inside barely glanced at him before reaching for the control panel. A second later, the barrier lifted, granting us entry.

  No words. No hesitation. Just silent permission.

  We moved forward.

  Beyond the checkpoint, everything changed.

  The long, empty roads gave way to something else—something sleek, modern, calculated. Large buildings stretched into the distance, their sharp edges lined with security fences and floodlights. The air here felt different—colder, sharper, humming with something unseen.

  Then, the ground lights shifted.

  Bright white beams cut through the darkness, illuminating something massive overhead.

  I frowned, leaning forward slightly. At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. It wasn’t a building. It wasn’t a plane. It wasn’t like anything I had ever seen before.

  “What is that?” My voice came out quieter than I intended.

  Dr. Zaraki turned his head slightly, following my gaze toward the dark shape looming above us. “A military airship,” he answered.

  I blinked. “A… what?”

  His voice remained calm, steady. “SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation specializes in advanced aviation technology. We develop new propulsion systems, aerospace defense programs, and military-grade aircraft. What you’re looking at is one of our current projects—a next-generation hydrogen-powered warship.”

  Warship.

  The word settled uneasily in my chest.

  Now that I knew what I was looking at, I could see the details emerging beneath the floodlights. It was enormous—suspended high above the compound, its metal framework exposed, scaffolding wrapping around its sides like skeletal ribs. Sparks flickered from welding torches as figures moved along the unfinished plating, their silhouettes dwarfed by the sheer size of it.

  It wasn’t alive.

  Not yet.

  But one day, it would be.

  I swallowed, shifting back against my seat, forcing my gaze away. The SUV rolled beneath the shadow of the warship, its presence pressing down, making the air feel heavier.

  The road stretched ahead, disappearing into the heart of the compound.

  We were getting closer.

  Closer to whatever came next.

  The road stretched on, winding deeper into the compound, the last traces of the city and the airship fading behind us. The further we drove, the darker it became. Streetlights were sparse out here, their glow dim compared to the bright floodlights that had illuminated the SAF facilities. The headlights of the SUV cut through the night, casting fleeting beams across the trees lining the private road.

  Something about this place felt… removed.

  I shifted in my seat, pressing my fingers against my sleeves. The compound had been clean-cut, sharp-edged, modern—but this stretch of road felt older. The pavement was smooth, but the way the trees curved overhead, the way the shadows stretched long and unbroken, gave it an almost untouched feeling.

  Then, up ahead, the road changed.

  The sleek asphalt gave way to something different—stone. A long, winding drive stretched ahead, lined with lantern-style lights that cast a golden glow over the path. And at the end of it, standing against the dark like something out of a forgotten time, was a mansion.

  I sat up slightly, my breath catching.

  It was nothing like the modern structures we had passed earlier. Where everything else had been steel and glass, sharp and efficient, this was something older. Something solid.

  The building was massive, its stone walls standing tall beneath the moonlight, the arched windows glowing faintly from within. The architecture felt out of place here, surrounded by the futuristic advancements of the compound, but at the same time, it didn’t.

  It wasn’t technology that made something powerful. It was presence. And this place had presence.

  A wrought-iron gate marked the entrance to the estate, its dark metal frame standing between two stone pillars. As we approached, the gates opened without hesitation, allowing the SUV to pass through.

  I swallowed, my fingers curling into my sleeves.

  Dr. Zaraki’s home.

  I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it hadn’t been this.

  The vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, the sound of tires crunching softly against the stone drive. The engine cut off, leaving only the silence of the night pressing around us.

  Dr. Zaraki stepped out first, his movement fluid, practiced, as if arriving here was nothing more than muscle memory. Dr. Volkova followed, smoothing down the front of her coat before adjusting her gloves.

  I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the door handle before I finally pulled it open.

  The cold greeted me instantly.

  It wasn’t as biting as the airstrip had been, but it was still sharp, curling through the open space and slipping beneath my coat. My shoes met the stone as I stepped out, and for a moment, I simply stood there, staring up at the building.

  It was taller than I had first realized. The main entrance was framed by stone archways, heavy wooden doors standing firm beneath an engraved crest. The windows glowed softly, casting faint golden light across the stone walls, but they didn’t make the place feel any less imposing.

  It was grand, but not in a way that felt welcoming.

  Not like the monastery.

  But still, something about it felt… familiar. Not in a way that suggested memory, but in the way it carried itself. The weight of its existence. The sheer presence of it.

  It was a place that would remain standing, no matter what surrounded it.

  Dr. Zaraki moved toward the entrance, his steps quiet against the stone. I exhaled, forcing my feet to follow.

  The heavy wooden doors opened as we approached.

  The warmth hit first pressing against my skin the moment I stepped inside. Not just from the shift in temperature, but from the weight of the place itself. It carried time in its bones. The thick wooden beams stretching overhead, the polished stone floors, the faint scent of burning wood and something older—something deep and unshaken, like the walls themselves had been built to endure.

  It was beautiful.

  But it wasn’t welcoming.

  Not in the way that a home should be. Not in the way the monastery had been. The monastery had held warmth in its silence, in the way voices whispered prayers beneath stone arches, in the way footsteps echoed softly through its halls. This place wasn’t silent—it was waiting. And it had been waiting long before I ever stepped foot inside it.

  Dr. Zaraki walked ahead, moving toward the grand staircase that split in two directions at the top. The sconces along the walls flickered with golden light, casting long, shifting shadows against the towering bookcases lining the foyer. The ceilings stretched high above me, and the further we walked, the heavier the air felt.

  Then, something caught my eye.

  A flicker of light on glass.

  I slowed my steps, drawn toward it without thinking. A framed photograph sat on a side table near the staircase, positioned carefully, deliberately—not hidden, but not meant for passing glances either.

  I stared.

  The girl in the picture wasn’t much younger than me. She had long, dark hair, though a thick lilac-colored streak ran through it, stark against the rest. Her eyes burned an unnatural amethyst, their glow catching the light just enough to make them feel… off. Not human.

  She sat in an imposing chair, its sleek frame embedded into the floor, surrounded by glowing digital displays that curved around her like a command center. The background was stark—cold, clean bulkheads with sharp edges, all polished metal and glass, illuminated by the golden light of a distant sun.

  I didn’t know what I was looking at.

  The space around her was too structured, too calculated, like the inside of a machine built with precision in mind. The chair itself was strange—too technical, like it wasn’t just furniture but something more.

  But what struck me most was her expression.

  She wasn’t smiling.

  Her face was serious, almost distant, as if she had been interrupted from something important. A book rested in one of her hands, open but half-forgotten, like she had been reading when the photo was taken.

  I didn’t know why, but something about it felt… unsettling. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made me feel like I was looking at something I wasn’t meant to understand.

  “Who is she?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  The words had barely left my lips before I sensed Dr. Zaraki’s presence behind me. He didn’t move closer, but I could feel the shift in the air, the quiet pause before he answered.

  “That is my daughter... Star,” he said, his voice carrying something I hadn’t heard from him before.

  Something softer.

  Something painful.

  I turned to look at him, studying the way his gaze rested on the picture, the way his normally unreadable expression had changed—not much, just enough. His features remained composed, but the weight behind them was undeniable.

  “You have a daughter?” I asked, feeling almost stupid for repeating it.

  “Yes.” His voice was quieter this time.

  I hesitated, glancing back at the photograph. “Will I meet her?”

  For the first time since I met him, Dr. Zaraki looked away. His jaw shifted slightly, his hands folding behind his back—not in power, not in control, but in restraint.

  “No,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. “She doesn’t live here. She’s overseas.”

  The answer was simple.

  But it wasn’t.

  The way he said it—it wasn’t just distance. It wasn’t just geography. It was something else. Something that lingered deeper than the words themselves.

  I didn’t ask anything else.

  Instead, I turned back to the picture, studying the sharp lines of the background, the unreadable expression on the girl’s face, the way she sat in that chair like she belonged there.

  Like she had never belonged anywhere else.

  I didn’t know where she was.

  I didn’t know what she was doing.

  But I knew one thing.

  She wasn’t coming home.

  Dr. Zaraki turned from the photograph and walked toward the staircase, his steps steady but quieter than before. I followed, my gaze drifting back to the girl in the picture one last time before tearing away.

  The stairs creaked softly beneath our weight as we ascended, the polished wood smooth under my fingertips when I brushed them against the railing. The second floor was quieter, the high ceilings and dim sconces casting long shadows along the walls. The warmth of the mansion was still present, but here, it felt heavier—less like a home, more like a place built for waiting.

  Dr. Zaraki walked ahead, leading me down a long corridor lined with closed doors, each identical to the last. But as we neared the end, one door stood out.

  It wasn’t the color or the size that made it different—it was the initials affixed to the surface in oil-rubbed bronze.

  S.Z.

  I stopped in front of it, my breath catching slightly.

  Star Zaraki.

  Dr. Zaraki reached for the handle, hesitated for only a moment, then pushed the door open.

  I stepped inside and froze.

  The room was untouched.

  Not abandoned. Not forgotten. Waiting.

  Dark grey walls framed the space, accented with deep amethyst tones that softened the weight of the shadows. The furniture was dark wood, polished and sturdy, each piece deliberately placed. Against the far wall sat a four-poster king-size bed, its frame grand but unassuming, the dark bedding neatly made, trimmed with thin amethyst embroidery. The fabric looked unused. Untouched.

  A large window overlooked the front of the mansion, the curtains pulled back just enough to let the glow of the outside lights spill in. The shadows shifted against the walls, making the room feel even more still, more expectant.

  To the left of the bed sat a matching desk, sleek but practical, empty except for a single chair. Beside it, a door likely led to the en suite bathroom and closet. Against the right wall stood a large curio cabinet, its shelves unfilled.

  Everything was perfect.

  Everything was waiting.

  I swallowed, stepping further inside, my shoes soundless against the plush carpeting.

  “This was meant to be her room,” I murmured, more to myself than to Dr. Zaraki.

  “It is Star’s room,” he corrected gently.

  I turned to face him. “But she’s never lived here.”

  “No.” His gaze drifted across the space, and for the first time since meeting him, I saw something shift behind his expression—something unguarded, something quietly painful. “But I wanted her to have a place here. Just in case.”

  The way he said it made my chest tighten.

  Just in case.

  It wasn’t just a room. It was a hope. A wish. A door left open for someone who had never walked through it.

  I glanced around again, seeing the room differently now. It wasn’t just clean—it was preserved. A place prepared but never used.

  Dr. Zaraki exhaled softly, the sound barely audible, then turned toward the door. “This will be your room for now.”

  I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  His lips twitched slightly, not quite a smile, but something close. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wasn’t.”

  I nodded slowly, stepping further inside.

  The weight of the space settled over me, the unspoken history pressed into its walls. This wasn’t my room. It wasn’t even hers.

  The door clicked shut behind Dr. Zaraki, leaving me alone in the room that wasn’t mine.

  I stood in the center, unmoving, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag. The weight of it pressed against my side, grounding me, reminding me that no matter how strange this place was, I still had something of my own.

  I walked toward the bed, setting my bag down carefully next to it. The leather was worn from travel, the seams stretched just enough to remind me that it held more than just belongings. Inside was everything I had left of the monastery—the tomes, the cash, the only remnants of a life that had burned away.

  I exhaled slowly, rubbing my arms through my sleeves. The warmth in the room had settled into my skin, but it hadn’t chased the cold away—not the cold in my chest, the one that had been sitting there since the fire.

  I moved toward the window, hesitating before pulling back the curtain. Outside, the world was quiet. The stone driveway stretched back toward the iron gate, its path lined with soft lanterns flickering against the frost-kissed ground. The estate beyond the mansion was dark, silent, untouched.

  Somewhere past the line of trees, hidden beyond the walls of this compound, was a city that never stopped moving.

  And somewhere far away was the girl whose name was on the door.

  I let the curtain fall back into place, glancing toward the bookshelves. I had expected them to be filled, but they weren’t. The shelves were mostly empty, only a handful of books placed neatly at eye level. Like someone had started to fill them but never finished.

  A new kind of heaviness settled in my chest.

  This wasn’t just a room. It was a possibility left open. A door left unlocked.

  But tonight, it belonged to me.

  I pulled off my coat, folding it over the chair at the desk before kneeling beside the bed. My fingers curled together, my breath evening out as I bowed my head.

  It had been over a day since I last prayed.

  I had never gone this long before. Even in the monastery, in the middle of my training, I had always found a moment. To be still. To acknowledge something beyond myself.

  But now, as I pressed my hands together, the words didn’t come easily.

  For so long, I had prayed for strength, for clarity, for understanding. But now… what was I supposed to pray for?

  I closed my eyes.

  I prayed for the dead.

  For those lost in the fire. For Father Reynaud. For the brothers and sisters who had raised me, the ones who had been kind, the ones who had cared.

  I prayed for the monastery, for the life that had been reduced to ash.

  I prayed for answers.

  And for the first time, I prayed for myself.

  When I finally lifted my head, my body felt heavier, but my mind was quieter. I pushed myself to my feet, pulling back the blankets before sliding into the bed, my bag resting within arm’s reach beside me.

  The weight of the sheets settled over my chest, but sleep didn’t come. My mind wouldn’t stop moving, wouldn’t stop unraveling the last thirty-six hours into frayed, tangled pieces.

  I turned onto my side, staring at the ceiling, letting my breath slow.

  I wasn’t home.

  This wasn’t my life.

  But for now, it was the only place I had.

  And in the silence of this room, surrounded by shadows that had never belonged to me, I did the only thing left.

  I closed my eyes and waited for morning.