White. Unmarked. Sitting on the floor just inside the door.
It wasn’t there before.
And I didn’t hear it arrive.
I stare at it for a full minute before I move.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up and slide my nail under the flap.
There’s no letter.
Just a drawing.
A girl curled up in bed.
Lines of feathers surround her body.
Not wings.
Moths.
They’re crawling across her skin.
Over her lips. Her eyes. Her spine.
At the bottom, in faint red ink, just six words:
You were never the only one.
You just forgot.
My hand is still clutching the paper, but I can’t feel my fingers.
The drawing stares back at me—those moths—each one inked like it knows me, like it’s been here before.
Like they never left.
The words blur, but I can’t stop reading them.
You were never the only one.
You just forgot.
I stumble back from the door. The room spins. My ribs tighten. There’s not enough air. There’s not enough space.
My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I drop, sinking into the bed like it can swallow me whole. Damien’s scent is stillon the sheets. The bruises he left on my body throb. I should feel safe.
I should.
But something is wrong.
Something is wrong with me.
The moment I read those words, something in my brain cracked open.
Like a basement door I thought was locked.
And behind it—His voice.
