The morning light did not feel like a new beginning; it felt like a spotlight. When Dr. Soren Morrison entered the room, his eyes were immediately drawn to the fireplace. He stood there for a long time, his hand hovering over the mantle, his gaze sweeping over the wood paneling with the intensity of a predator tracking a scent.
Mailah sat up in bed, clutching her robe to her chest, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm. She had spent the entire night wide awake, staring at the ceiling, her fingers tracing the patterns of the key beneath her pillow until her skin felt raw.
"You look exhausted, Mailah," Soren said, turning toward her. His voice was clinical, yet there was a sharp, probing edge to it. "The color in your face is poor. Was the night difficult?"
