The silence in Amara's apartment felt thinner tonight. It was Friday night, but Amara was currently held hostage by a stack of heavy, leather-bound volumes that smelled of ancient dust and secrets better left buried.
She was curled up in bed, the duvet bunched around her waist, propped up by a mountain of pillows that did little to ease the literal weight of the books Theron had "assigned" her. Honestly, calling it an assignment felt like a generous euphemism. It was more like a forced immersion into a reality she still wasn't entirely sure she wanted to inhabit.
