And despite everything?—
the pain
the anger
the fog
the fear?—
a tiny laugh escapes me.
For the first time since homecoming,
I don’t feel broken.
Just bruised.
Somewhere between Angela Bassett finding happiness and Irene loudly critiquing everyone’s fashion choices, my eyes start to droop.
The fire is warm.
The cocoa is sweet.
My whole body is heavy in that bone-deep way that happens after too much crying.
I drift sideways on the couch until my head finds a pillow.
Someone—probably Aunt Susan—tucks a blanket over me.
The last thing I hear before I fully fade is Irene murmuring,
“She’s safe. Let her sleep.”
I wake up when someone gently shakes my shoulder.
“Come on,” Aunt Susan whispers. “Let’s get you to a real bed.”
I nod groggily and follow her down the hall.
The guest room is small but elegant, old-school in the way that feels intentional—not outdated, but nostalgic. Whitewashed walls. Quilted blue comforter. A little lamp with a seashell base. A window overlooking the black ocean.
The waves crash below, steady and rhythmic.
A lullaby.
I crawl into the bed.
The sheets are crisp and cold.
The pillow smells faintly like lavender.
When Aunt Susan turns off the light, the room glows silver from the moon.
I fall asleep instantly.
The dream starts soft.
Warm breath.
