The morning air is cold and sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and dew-kissed petals from the garden below. I stand motionless on the balcony, my hands resting on the cold iron railing, staring down at the mansion gardens spread beneath me like a painting left unfinished.
The blooms sway gently in the cool breeze—crimson roses, pale lavender, soft white jasmine—their colors softened by the early light, their petals still heavy with the night's dew. A thin mist clings to the grass, curling along the stone paths before slowly dissolving beneath the rising sun.
The world feels suspended, caught in that fragile breath between night and day, where everything is still, quiet, and waiting. The silence is so complete that I can hear my own heartbeat—slow, steady—a reminder that I'm still here.
Still breathing. Still trapped inside a body that feels less and less like my own.
Last night.
Moon and I...
