Idon’t feel well.
My heart’s pounding like a drum in my chest. The toy shop around me seems to blur, the edges of my vision getting fuzzy.
What’s happening to me?
This can’t be happening now. Not here, not with Yulia.
Think, Sophia, think. What’s Aleks planning?
My mind returns to Anya, her evil smirk, and her cold, deadly eyes.
Should I come clean with Luka?
No! He’ll kill me. Bloody Aleks!
He’s left me in the dark. I have no idea if Nilo or Wren are alive.
Oh God, breathe, just breathe.
“Look, Sophia!” Yulia’s voice rings through the haze, and I turn to see her eyes shining with excitement. She’s pointing at the dollhouses lined up on a shelf, each one more elaborate than the next. “See this one?” she chirps, pulling me closer. “It’s got a little garden and a swing. And this one here’s got tiny rooms, and you can even see the little dishes in the kitchen!”
“Yeah, Yulia, they’re beautiful,” I manage to say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. I try to focus on the details she’s showing me, but my head’s spinning, and I can’t quite catch my breath.
Was it because I skipped breakfast?
My eyes dart to Luka, who’s in conversation with Patrick, the owner, but everything’s getting more and more blurry.
“Sophia, are you listening?” Yulia asks, tugging at my arm, her voice filled with concern. “Sophia!” I hear Yulia’s shouting.
My eyes close, and I’m falling. But before I can hit the ground, I feel a strong arm grab me. There’s an energy I can’t place.
Then everything goes black.
∞∞∞
“I think she’s coming to.”
Voices, distant and muffled, slowly reach me. My eyes feel heavy, and it takes all my strength to pry them open.
“Can someone call her husband?” a voice says, worry clear in its tone.
Husband? Whose husband?
I try to respond, but the words won’t come. I try to sit up, but a wave of nausea hits me, and I fall back onto the bed.
What on earth is going on here?
The smell is what hits me first, something familiar that I can’t quite place. It’s sterile but not harsh, mixed with a comforting hint of essential oils.
Nana’s favorite lavender, maybe?
A pang of longing hits me, and I miss her suddenly, achingly.
As my eyes start to clear and I slowly sit up, the surroundings begin to make sense. Fresh flowers rest on the nightstand next to unfamiliar medical equipment. Pleasant prints of rolling meadow landscapes line the walls, and soothing nature scenes play on a TV in the corner. The bronze light fixtures and the well-crafted furniture add a touch of elegance.
“Where am I?” I croak, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
“Stay still,” an unfamiliar voice commands, firm but gentle. “You’re at Riverdale Private Hospital.”
