Locked. I was locked in, which meant everyone else was locked out.
My hands shook as I turned back to survey the room. My room. At least for now. At least for as long as this lasted before it all fell apart.
I moved to the dresser first, pulled open the top drawer. Underwear, all new, still with tags attached. The second drawer held t-shirts and tank tops in soft fabrics, cotton and jersey, that looked like they'd feel good against my skin. The third drawer — I stopped, my breath catching.
Dresses. Several of them, all folded neatly. I pulled one out, letting it unfold in my hands. It was cotton-soft, with a pattern of small flowers scattered across a cream background. Simple and sweet.
The flowers were tiny, delicate things. Daisies, maybe, or something close to daisies. Like the ones my mother used to grow in the garden behind our house, back when I'd had a house, back when I'd had a mother who sang while she tended her flowers.
My eyes burned. I pressed the dress against my chest, felt the softness, and had to fight back the sudden surge of grief and longing that threatened to overwhelm me.
I set the dress carefully on the bed and moved to the bathroom.
The space was all white tile and chrome fixtures, spotless and gleaming. A shower took up one corner, glass-enclosed with a rainfall showerhead that looked like something from a magazine. I turned the tap, watched water cascade down, and when steam rose, I stripped off my layers.
The coat first, then the fleece, the thermal, and the undershirt that had been white once. Each layer revealed how thin I'd gotten, how my ribs showed through my skin, how my hip bones jutted out sharp and prominent. I looked away from my reflection in the mirror, not wanting to see the evidence of how close I'd come to not surviving.
The water hit my skin, and I moaned. I couldn't help it. Heat soaked into me, into muscles that had been cold and tight for months. The temperature was perfect, hot enough to sting slightly, hot enough to remind me what warmth felt like. I stood under the spray and let it cascade over my head, down my back, washing away the layers of dirt, sweat, and the constant grime of street living.
There was soap, expensive soap that smelled like lavender and something else I couldn't identify. I used it everywhere, scrubbing at my skin until it turned pink, washing my hair twice just because I could. The water at my feet ran gray, then lighter, then finally clear.
I stayed in that shower until my fingers pruned, then turned off the shower and opened the door, stepping out, shivering as the cool air assaulted me.
The towels were thick and soft, and I snuggled in one, never wanting to leave it. Taking a breath, I dried off slowly, pulled on new underwear, and then wrapped myself in the towel and padded back to the bedroom.
The flowered dress was still there on the bed, waiting.
I picked it up, pulled it over my head, and felt the soft cotton settle against my clean skin. It fit perfectly, falling just above my knees, with the waist sitting exactly where it should. The flowers seemed to glow in the morning light, tiny cheerful things that reminded me of sunshine and gardens.
I touched one flower on the fabric, traced its outline with my finger.
“I miss you,” I whispered to the empty room, to the memory of my mother, who'd smelled like earth, and sung like an angel. “I miss you so much.”
But I was here. Still alive. Still fighting. Still singing, even when every note hurt.
I found myself standing in front of a long mirror, staring at the woman reflected there. Clean hair that actually shone in the light, falling in damp waves around my shoulders. Skin that was pale but no longer gray with cold and dirt. The flowered dress making me look younger, softer, like someone who might have a life beyond survival.
I barely recognized myself.
The realization should have been comforting, but it opened something inside me, some carefully sealed place I'd learned not to touch. The dress was so soft against my skin, so gentle, so much like what I would have worn before everything fell apart. Before I'd learned that soft things were dangerous, that comfort was a trap, that letting your guard down meant inviting pain.
I touched my stomach, pressed my palm flat against the fabric over my abdomen.
The memory hit like a fist.
I'd been four months along when I started preparing the nursery. It wasn't much, just a corner of the room they'd given me in the pack house, but I'd made it as nice as I could with what little I had. I'd found a cradle at a second-hand store, the wood worn but sturdy, and I'd sanded it smooth myself, working for hours to make sure there were no splinters that could hurt delicate skin. I'd painted it white, using careful, thin coats, letting each one dry completely before adding the next.
There had been blankets, too. Soft yellow ones because I hadn't known if I was carrying a boy or a girl, and yellow seemed safe, seemed happy. I'd folded them carefully, placed them in the cradle, imagined small hands grabbing at them, a tiny face peeking out from the folds.
I'd sung while I worked. All my mother's songs, all the melodies she'd taught me, poured into that space like I could build a sanctuary out of music and love.
I'd been so stupid.
Bane, the leader of the Alphas, had found me there one evening, standing over the cradle, one hand resting on my swollen belly. I'd been singing something soft and low, a lullaby my mother used to hum.
“You think that's yours?” he'd said, his voice cutting through my song like a blade.
I'd turned, confused. “It's my baby.”
