SERAPHINA'S POV
The room was hushed, dawn’s light faintly pressing against my eyelids. My body throbbed with that deep, echoing ache left behind when a fever finally broke—heavy, spent, but no longer aflame.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Like a déjà vu moment, Maya was curled in the chair beside my bed, her boots discarded near the wall, her jacket draped over the armrest.
Her head drooped forward, dark braids spilling across her face, one hand still loosely tangled with mine as if she feared letting go, even in sleep.
For a moment, my vision blurred.
The edges of the present wavered, and suddenly I was small again, my body too light beneath thick blankets.
The bed felt larger, the ceiling higher. A lamp burned low at the corner of the room, casting amber light over a familiar silhouette seated exactly where Maya sat now.
Margaret Lockwood, younger than I remembered her ever being. No silver in her hair yet. No lines carved deep by years of careful restraint.
