[Meredith].
It had been a week.
A full week since I accepted that the little girl I once sat with, laughed with, and drew gardens beside had never truly existed.
Xamira was gone.
What remained was a shapeshifter—one whose true form was a bird, whose obedience was enforced by fear rather than trust, and whose presence still unsettled me in ways I didn't openly admit.
I was learning to live with that truth, even if it sat heavy in my chest some mornings more than others.
This morning was one of those mornings.
I walked through the corridor toward the dining room alone, my footsteps soft against the stone floor. The estate was awake, but quiet.
Servants moved with practised efficiency, bowing as I passed, their expressions relaxed and comfortable. That, at least, reassured me. Whatever darkness I was wading through privately, I hadn't let it leak into the lives of those around me.
I had tried.
