The house seemed frozen as I quietly closed my bedroom door after Malaric's visit.
But inside me, a storm was raging.
His grin, his words – "You are his abyss. And he is yours." – clung like thorns to my heart.
I lay in bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, as if it could make me invisible.
But my thoughts were spinning too fast, my breathing too shallow.
I stared at the ceiling until the shadows began to move and turn into stories I didn't want to hear.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but drops were still running from the gutters, a soft, irregular dripping that sounded like a heartbeat – just not mine.
Then – voices.
They came from below, muffled, but clear enough that I could hear them through the floor of my room.
My parents.
I held my breath, straining my ears.
"She's too pale," my mother said. Her voice sounded tired, fragile, but not harsh.
More like someone who has been living too long with a burden she can barely carry anymore.
