A week had passed since we began restoring the house.
My Uncle Arthur, along with George and two of George's close friends, had thrown themselves into the work with a level of dedication that both surprised and humbled me. What I had expected to be a slow, exhausting process stretching over months had instead unfolded with steady, almost determined progress. The sound of hammers striking nails, the scrape of sandpaper against old wood, the murmur of low conversations drifting through the yard—these became the rhythm of my days.
The exterior of the house was almost completely restored within the first few days.
The peeling paint that once hung from the walls in tired strips was scraped away layer by layer. Beneath it, the wood—weathered but resilient—waited patiently to be renewed. The wooden window frames were sanded smooth and repaired with care, their rough edges softened by patient hands. The faded shutters, once hanging crookedly, were reinforced and secured firmly into place. The garden, which had looked more like an untamed field than a yard, was cleared of weeds. Thorny vines that had claimed the fence were cut back. The leaning wooden fence posts were straightened and fixed, standing upright again as if reclaiming their dignity.
When viewed from the outside, the house no longer looked abandoned.
It looked as though it had awakened from a long, heavy sleep.
The new coat of paint—soft and warm—caught the sunlight in a way that made the structure seem almost proud of itself. It was strange how something as simple as color could restore life to a place. The house didn't look forgotten anymore. It looked like it was waiting.
But when we stepped inside, an entirely different feeling settled over me.
For now, I decided I didn't want to make any major changes to the interior. I couldn't explain why—not even to myself. Perhaps I feared that changing too much would erase something important. There were no visible cracks in the walls, no serious structural damage. The ceiling beams were firm. The wooden stairs stood strong despite the passing years, and when we tested them, they didn't even creak under our weight. Structurally, the house was solid—stubbornly intact, as if refusing to surrender to time.
And yet, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.
It wasn't just dust on surfaces—it was dust suspended in the air, drifting slowly when disturbed. When sunlight filtered through the windows, it illuminated the floating particles like tiny ghosts suspended in golden beams. The smell inside was heavy, stale, and dry—like old paper and closed rooms.
It looked as though no one had stepped through that door in years.
Even after we opened the windows wide, even after we let fresh air rush in, the old scent lingered stubbornly. It clung to the walls, to the curtains, to the furniture. It felt like memory refusing to fade.
My mother had once mentioned that Uncle Arthur rarely visited this house after moving into his own home. At the time, I hadn't thought much of it. It had sounded like a simple fact—nothing more.
Now, standing there in the center of the hallway, that detail weighed differently.
The realization that no one had truly entered this house since my grandfather's death created a strange emptiness inside me. It was as if the silence had grown roots. As if it had settled into the cracks between floorboards and walls, embedding itself into the structure. The house didn't just feel quiet—it felt aware of its own abandonment.
As though even the walls were quietly protesting the years of neglect.
My mother used to tell me stories about this place.
Whenever she mentioned that both she and my father had grown up in this town, her voice would soften. Her gaze would drift far beyond the present moment, beyond me, beyond the room we were sitting in. There was always a distant warmth in her expression—a mixture of fondness and longing.
She had lived in this house until she graduated from high school.
My father, on the other hand, moved to the city with his family during his high school years. But according to her, distance had never truly separated them. Phone calls late at night. Short visits during holidays. Secret meetings near the old bridge at the edge of town. She would smile when she told those stories—like she was reliving them.
She always said the distance strengthened their bond instead of weakening it.
They married after my father finished college and my mother completed her final year of high school. This house had been the starting point of their story. The place where their young love had grown quietly, stubbornly, against time and separation.
It had witnessed their beginning.
And now, wandering through these rooms, I felt as though I had stepped into their youth—into a version of them I had never known. A version untouched by adulthood, untouched by responsibility. I could almost imagine my mother running down the hallway, her laughter echoing. I could imagine my father standing awkwardly in the doorway, pretending not to be nervous.
While walking down the corridor, I paused.
The red pencil marks were still there.
On the doorframe—faded but visible—were the lines where my mother and Uncle Arthur had measured their heights as children. Each line carefully dated. Each small note written in uneven handwriting.
I ran my fingers lightly over one of the marks.
Untouched by time.
The wood beneath my fingertips was smooth, worn gently by years. For a moment, I closed my eyes. I could almost hear distant laughter in the kitchen. The faint clatter of dishes. My grandfather's deep voice calling someone for dinner.
But those imagined sounds felt buried beneath dust and silence.
For me, this house stirred a nostalgic sorrow rather than warmth. The stories my mother told had always been filled with light. But standing here alone, I felt something quieter. Something heavier.
A quiet sympathy.
It was tender, yet distant.
It felt as though the house did not truly belong to me—but that I was merely borrowing it from the past. Like stepping into someone else's unfinished dream.
No matter how much time I spent here, I wasn't sure I would ever feel like I truly belonged.
And yet…
Each time I opened a window. Each time sunlight spilled across the wooden floors. Each time fresh air replaced the stale heaviness—
I felt myself drawn to it a little more.
The furniture inside was old but sturdy. Solid wood. Carefully crafted. Tables that had endured decades. Cabinets that still closed properly. Chairs that didn't wobble.
They were not beautiful in a modern sense.
But they were reliable.
Still, my uncle insisted on buying new furniture.
"Start fresh," he had said more than once.
I told him I would think about it. Though the truth was—I wasn't certain. I wasn't sure about settling into the house permanently. I wasn't even confident about earning enough money to replace everything. The thought of depending too much on him unsettled me.
Even though he repeatedly told me not to worry about finances.
I didn't want to become a burden.
By the twelfth day of repairs, everything was finally ready.
The house had been painted. The scent of fresh paint lingered faintly but pleasantly. The floors had been polished. The dust was gone. The windows shone clean, reflecting the sky clearly.
Nothing remained to prevent someone from living there again.
Even though my uncle insisted that I stay one more night at his place, I chose to move in immediately.
I didn't want to delay it.
If I hesitated too long, I feared I might never do it at all.
George joked after we finished renovating.
"William better attend the first party I throw in this house," he said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like he had just issued a royal decree.
I laughed and promised that his name would be at the very top of the guest list.
And for the first time in days, the house didn't feel so heavy.
Finally, I parked my car beside the house just as the late afternoon sun began to lower behind the trees. The sky was painted in soft shades of gold and pale pink, the kind of quiet evening light that makes everything feel momentarily gentle.
I hadn't brought much with me.
Just a few suitcases filled with clothes, some books, and a small wooden box that carried the old family photographs. That box was the heaviest thing I owned—though not because of its size. It held pictures of my parents, of birthdays and summer picnics, of moments frozen in time before everything had changed. Those photographs were the only belongings that truly mattered.
The house echoed faintly as I carried my things inside.
Every step I took felt louder than it should have. The sound of my shoes against the polished wooden floor seemed foreign—like the house was still adjusting to the presence of someone living in it again.
I placed my suitcases in the bedroom that had once belonged to my mother. I had decided to stay there without thinking too much about it. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was something deeper.
The room still smelled faintly of fresh paint and wood polish, but beneath it, there was another scent—something old and almost sweet. Like dried flowers kept between the pages of a book.
I opened the wooden box of photographs and set a few of them on the bedside table.
My parents on their wedding day. My mother laughing, her head thrown back. My father holding me as a child.
I stood there for a long moment, staring.
Then I carefully placed my blanket and pillow on the bed. I hadn't bought new ones yet. It felt unnecessary. The mattress was firm but comfortable enough. The sheets were clean, crisp from washing.
When I finally stepped outside into the garden, evening had settled completely.
The air was cooler now. Quiet.
I inhaled deeply.
For the first time since arriving, I felt something close to calm.
I had brought seeds with me—small paper packets tucked into my bag. Vegetables for the backyard. Flowers for the front garden. It felt practical that way. Vegetables where they could grow quietly, out of sight. Flowers where they could greet whoever passed by.
I knelt down in the soil, pressing my fingers into the earth.
The dirt was cool and slightly damp beneath the surface. The sensation grounded me. There was something reassuring about planting something that required patience. Something that wouldn't bloom overnight.
As I continued planting in the front garden, carefully spacing each seed, I sensed someone approaching.
I looked up.
An elderly woman stood near the gate, watching me with soft curiosity.
She wore a loose green dress that moved gently with the breeze. Her white hair was neatly tied back, though a few thin strands escaped around her temples. Her face showed the clear signs of age—fine lines around her eyes and mouth—but there was warmth in her gaze that softened every wrinkle.
She smiled.
"Hello there," she said gently. "You must be Arthur's nephew."
I stood quickly, brushing dirt from my hands. "Yes, ma'am."
She waved a hand lightly. "Oh, don't 'ma'am' me. It makes me feel older than I already am." She chuckled. "I'm Martha. I live next door—with my husband."
Her voice carried the steady calm of someone who had lived in the same place for decades.
She glanced down at the seeds in my hand. "Planting already? That's good. A house needs life around it."
I nodded. "I thought it would help."
"It will," she said confidently. "Gardens remember kindness."
There was something poetic about the way she said it.
She stepped a little closer, examining the soil. "I love gardening too. If you ever need help, don't hesitate to knock."
I hesitated for a second before answering. "Thank you. But I'll manage."
I didn't want to trouble her.
Miss Martha simply smiled at my refusal. Not offended. Not insistent.
"Well," she said warmly, "my door is always open. You're welcome to visit for tea anytime."
Then she walked away slowly, her steps careful but steady, leaving behind the faint scent of flowers and earth.
I watched her until she disappeared behind her gate.
The town was small.
People noticed things here.
During the days we were fixing the house, my uncle had also introduced me to a woman who owned a greenhouse and a pasture nearby.
Her name was Jasmine.
She was a beta, a few years older than me. Practical. Direct. The kind of person who rarely wasted words. She managed the shop she had inherited from her mother, selling vegetables and produce she grew herself.
Thanks to my uncle's recommendation, I began working with her.
Her brother, Eric, was the complete opposite.
Where Jasmine was strict, Eric was careless. Where she was organized, he was chaotic. Where she focused on responsibility, he focused on humor.
He joked constantly. Sometimes at the wrong moments.
But somehow, the shop worked.
We worked six days a week.
Every morning began before sunrise. The air at that hour was crisp and damp, carrying the scent of soil and dew. Jasmine, Eric, and I would walk through the fields, inspecting the vegetables carefully.
Jasmine was meticulous.
"Not that one," she would say, pointing. "Too ripe." "This one's perfect." "Careful—don't bruise it."
We selected them one by one. Ripe but not overgrown. Fresh but not damaged. Each vegetable placed carefully into wooden crates.
There was something satisfying about it.
Physical work left little space for overthinking.
By mid-morning, we opened the store.
Customers trickled in steadily—mostly familiar faces. Elderly couples. Mothers with children. Restaurant owners from nearby towns.
They appreciated our quality. Even though the vegetables were small, they were flavorful and fresh. That reputation kept us busy.
Sundays, however, were different.
Sundays were chaos.
We set up our stand on the main street along with other vendors. The town came alive that day—voices overlapping, coins clinking, children running between stalls.
By the end of each Sunday, we were exhausted.
And because of that, Monday was our day off.
A quiet pause before it all began again.
I was going to receive my first salary next week.
It wasn't much, but it was mine.
I decided to organize a dinner for my uncle and everyone who had helped me. A small thank-you. I had already invited most of them.
Jasmine wouldn't be able to attend. She would be traveling to the city with her mother to buy new seeds. The shop would be closed next Sunday anyway.
Still, the thought of hosting something in the house felt… important.
Like claiming it.
That morning—Sunday—I left early.
The air was still cool. The streets were quiet except for distant footsteps and the occasional rumble of a cart being pulled into position.
We met in front of the shop.
Jasmine was already there, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
She looked irritated.
When I approached her, I offered a small smile. "Good morning, Jasmine. What's wrong?"
She stomped her foot lightly. "Stupid Eric is missing again! On the most important street sale day! We haven't even loaded the boxes yet!"
I lowered my voice, trying to calm her. "It's okay. I'll handle it. Let's focus on setting up first."
She exhaled sharply, then nodded.
Together, we loaded the crates onto the truck. The weight of them strained my arms, but I didn't complain. Work was easier than dwelling on silence.
We drove to the sales area.
Fortunately, we had arranged the stand the day before. The wooden table was already secured. The canopy frame stood ready—though without fabric overhead.
As I checked everything, making sure nothing had shifted overnight, Eric suddenly appeared.
Far too cheerful.
"Good morning, beautiful and handsome friends!"
Jasmine kicked him—not hard, but definitely threatening. "Where have you been?! We were supposed to meet at the shop!"
Eric raised his hands dramatically. "Forgive me, boss. But look—I'm here now. I would never abandon my favorite coworkers."
Jasmine and I exchanged identical unimpressed looks.
Eric sighed exaggeratedly. "Okay, okay. I'll take care of the rest."
And surprisingly, he did.
He grabbed a crate and began arranging the vegetables neatly. His movements were quick when he chose to focus. He even hummed under his breath as he worked.
And just like that, another long Sunday began.
Two hours passed quickly.
Customers crowded around the stand. Coins exchanged hands. Compliments were given.
Then Jasmine glanced up at the sky.
Her expression changed.
"It looks like it's going to rain," she said with concern. "We need an awning."
Dark clouds were gathering above us—slow but steady.
Eric jumped to his feet immediately. "I'll get it from Fenrir right away!"
Jasmine grabbed his arm before he could move. "If you go, you won't be back for an hour because of your laziness and chatting. William, will you go instead?"
I nodded without hesitation. "Sure. But… what is Fenrir?"
"Not what. Who," she corrected. "He's a vendor. Sells supplies. His stand's at the end of the road."
I followed her gesture.
His stall was larger than most. Rough-looking. Functional.
As I approached, the smell of raw meat and cold air reached me first.
Freshly hunted, ready-to-eat frozen meat was packed tightly in ice inside a large styrofoam box. Dried meat packages were stacked neatly along the side.
There were also tools.
Strange ones.
Metal hooks. Thick ropes. Blades with worn handles.
Nothing decorative.
Everything practical.
Everything used.
But I didn't see him.
I glanced around.
"Where is this Fenrir?" I muttered quietly.
"What are you looking for?"
The voice came from behind me.Deep,close,maybe too close...I flinched and turned around quickly.
He stood there,so tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Long hair reaching his shoulders—slightly messy, yet strangely fitting him.
But it was his eyes that held me in place,Blue,Not soft blue,Not bright but a cold blue,Like the sea beneath polar ice,unreadable.
I realized too late that I hadn't answered him.
"I was looking for Fenrir," I said finally, my voice slightly unsteady.
He nodded once.
"I'm Fenrir. What do you want?"
And for the first time since moving here—
I felt like the air had changed.
For a brief second, I forgot why I had come. There was something about the way he stood—perfectly still, shoulders relaxed yet somehow alert—that made him feel less like a vendor and more like a predator disguised as one. Not aggressive, not openly threatening, but controlled, restrained and deliberate. Too controlled. I swallowed and forced myself to speak. "Jasmine asked for an awning. She said to write it to her account." His gaze did not leave my face. It did not wander, did not flicker. It was steady, measuring, cold and deep. Without a word, he stepped past me, the movement smooth, unhurried, precise. I felt the faint shift of air as he moved. He crouched near one of the side crates and lifted the lid, his forearms strong, defined and steady as he pulled out a folded canvas awning. Even that simple action seemed intentional, calculated and efficient.
"Size?" he asked.
"Our stand is medium. Same as last week," I replied quickly. He gave a small nod, as if he had already known. When he handed the awning to me, his fingers brushed mine—cold, firm and unyielding. Not cool from handling ice, but cold in a way that made my skin react instantly. My pulse faltered. My wolf stirred faintly inside me, confused, alert and restless. He turned away, pulled out a worn leather notebook from beneath the counter and flipped through the pages slowly, deliberately. The silence stretched between us, heavy, pressing and uncomfortable. "I wrote it here," he said calmly, marking Jasmine's account with sharp, angular handwriting. I nodded quickly. "Thank you."
I should have left immediately, but I hesitated. Something was wrong. I hadn't smelled him. Not faintly, not even beneath the scent of meat, metal and rain. In a marketplace filled with alphas, betas and omegas, scents blended constantly—warm, sharp and layered. Even suppressed ones left traces. My wolf was sensitive; it always recognized something—dominance, neutrality or sweetness. But from Fenrir, there was nothing. No alpha weight, no beta calm, no omega warmth. Just absence. Silence. Emptiness. My medication could dull heightened responses, but not erase them completely. And yet, standing before him felt like facing a void.
"You're staring," he said suddenly. My heart jolted. I hadn't realized. "Sorry," I muttered. He studied me for another second, his cold, harsh and deep eyes narrowing slightly. "You're new." It wasn't a question. "Yes." "You're Arthur's nephew." Again, not a question. I nodded slowly. His gaze sharpened, subtle yet piercing. "I remember Arthur," he said quietly, and there was something in his tone—recognition, history and something unspoken. Before I could respond, thunder rolled across the sky, low, distant and warning. I flinched. His eyes flicked upward briefly. "You should hurry. It'll start soon." As if summoned by his words, the first drops of rain struck my cheek, cold, sudden and sharp.
I stepped back quickly. "Thank you." I turned and walked away, trying not to rush, trying not to show the unease crawling beneath my skin. But I could feel it—his gaze following me, steady, unwavering and heavy. When I returned to our stand, Jasmine noticed my expression immediately. "You look pale. What happened?" "Nothing," I replied, handing her the awning. We unfolded it just as the rain began in earnest. At first light, then steady, then relentless. The marketplace transformed within minutes—vendors shouting, fabric snapping, customers scrambling. The scent of rain mixed with earth, vegetables and damp wood. Under the awning, we worked faster, focused and efficient. Eric secured the ropes while I tightened the corners, water striking the canvas in rhythmic, pounding waves.
Despite the storm, customers remained. Laughter echoed beneath umbrellas, coins clinked, voices overlapped. Yet even while weighing vegetables and exchanging change, I felt it. Every so often, my eyes drifted toward the end of the road. Fenrir stood beneath his shelter, unmoving, silent and imposing. Rain slid off the edge of his canopy, the cold air seeming to belong to him. He did not call out to customers, did not advertise, did not smile. He simply stood there. Watching. Several times, our eyes met. He did not look away. Not once. It felt deliberate, intentional and unsettling, like a hunter fixing his gaze on a chosen target.
By late afternoon, the rain eased into a thin mist, the streets wet, reflective and silver beneath the fading light. We sold nearly everything. Jasmine wiped her forehead. "Good job," she said. Eric stretched dramatically, joking as always. As we loaded the last crate, I felt it again. I turned. Fenrir stood at the end of the road, tall, broad and still. This time, he wasn't looking at the stand. He was looking directly at me. No expression crossed his face. No smile, no threat, no warmth. Just those icy, unreadable and endless blue eyes. Something in my chest tightened—not fear, not exactly. Something instinctive. My wolf stirred again, alert, tense and cautious.
I turned away first.
On the drive back, Eric's chatter filled the truck, light, careless and constant. Jasmine answered occasionally. I stared out the window, watching the town pass by, washed clean by rain. Yet my thoughts kept circling back. I hadn't smelled him. That was impossible. Unless he was suppressing it deliberately, hiding it carefully, controlling it completely.
When we arrived at the shop, Jasmine paused near the doorway. "Be careful around him," she said quietly. I looked at her. "Around who?" She didn't need to clarify. "Fenrir." "Why?" She hesitated. "He keeps to himself. Doesn't talk much. People say he used to live outside town. Alone. Nothing proven. Just… different." Different. Cold, distant and unreadable. "Has he always sold meat?" I asked. "For years." "And before that?" She shook her head. "No one knows."
That night, when I returned home, the sky was clear, dark and endless above the house. I stood in the yard for a moment, listening to crickets, distant laughter and the faint rustle of trees. The house looked peaceful, warm and quiet. I stepped inside and locked the door behind me. The interior felt safer, calmer and still. I placed my keys on the table and leaned back against the door, exhaling slowly. Why did it feel like something had shifted? It had been a simple conversation, a normal purchase, nothing more. Yet my instincts did not feel calm.
I moved toward the living room window. The street outside was dimly lit, empty and silent beneath the lamp's pale glow. For a brief, irrational second, I felt as though I wasn't alone, as though somewhere beyond the visible light, someone was watching. My wolf stirred low and uneasy. I pulled the curtain closed. You're tired, I told myself. Just tired. It had been a long day—rain, work and tension.
When I lay down in bed and turned off the light, darkness settled around me, quiet, thick and waiting. The silence returned, but it no longer felt rooted. It felt expectant. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the image of those cold, harsh and deep blue eyes. Watching, waiting and patient.
I wanted to get out from under those eyes at once. The way he was looking at me made my skin prickle; I felt exposed, like I was trapped inside a naked dream with nowhere to hide. It was as if Fenrir could see through every wall I had built, as if he could see me exactly as I was. And that was when my wolf, Fraun, stirred awake in my mind.
It happened sometimes. He would open his eyes inside me, look around cautiously, and the moment he sensed Fenrir, everything changed. Fraun began to howl in my thoughts, low at first, then louder, more desperate. He kept staring at him through my eyes, wanting him. It had always happened before, but this time it was different. This time he was wild, restless, almost frantic. He didn't just want him—he craved him.
Well… it wasn't surprising. Fenrir was tall, muscular, mysterious, and undeniably handsome. Anyone could see that. I was sure Fraun wanted him, but I didn't choose this. Not now.
I didn't even know who my mate was, and honestly, I didn't care. I wasn't gay, and I had never imagined myself wanting a man, let alone sharing a bed with one. That wasn't who I was.
But Fraun kept howling. The sound echoed inside my skull, making my head throb and my body shiver uncontrollably. My pulse quickened against my will.
It was torture—Fenrir's steady gaze on me, and Fraun's relentless hunger in my mind. I felt caught between us, losing control little by little.
Luckily, Jasmine eventually noticed that I wasn't well and gently insisted that I go to the truck to rest. I didn't argue. My head felt heavy, my thoughts slow and tangled, and every sound around me seemed sharper than it should have been. The moment I climbed into the back of the truck and lay down, I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realized I'd been holdin.
I closed my eyes, hoping for silence, for a moment of peace.
Instead, I heard Fraun's voice in my head.
"He's perfect. I'm sure he's our Mate."
I frowned, pressing the back of my hand against my forehead. "You can't know that, Fraun. You only saw him once. You can't tell something like that from appearance alone. And he even hide his scent. How could you possibly like him without smelling his scent?"
Fraun's tone sharpened immediately, irritation seeping through our mental link. "I can't smell properly anyway because of those stupid medicine you take," he snapped. "But he is very suitable to be your mate,And he had his eyes on you."
A nervous heat crawled up my neck, mixing uneasily with anger. "he looked like he was going to kill me."
Fraun chuckled, low and teasing. "No. I know those looks.he wasn't looking like he wanted to kill you.he was looking like he wanted to eat you."
I felt my face burn despite myself. "Shut up," I muttered, shame and frustration; "Or I'll take sleeping pills."
Fraun went quiet at that, though the silence didn't last long. A soft, mischievous giggle echoed faintly in my mind, impossible to ignore.
I turned onto my side, staring at the dim interior of the truck. My heart was still beating too fast. Whether it was from the scared, nervousness or from Fraun's words—I couldn't tell.
At the end of the day, Jasmine drove me home, the city lights blurring past the windows as my thoughts drifted aimlessly. Tomorrow was supposed to be my rest day, a day free of obligations, yet my mind felt anything but rested. It was foggy, scattered, like a storm cloud lingering just above my consciousness, threatening to burst at any moment.
I took my medicine and slid into bed, the familiar weight of the sheets doing little to calm the whirlwind in my head. Fraun's presence lingered, humming softly somewhere in the recesses of my mind. Apparently, she was calm now, or at least she wanted me to believe she was. But I knew better than to trust her calmness entirely. Fraun was unpredictable, and I had learned the hard way that calmness often meant plotting, that her mind was never really at rest, and that she would find a way to stir trouble in the shadows of my own thoughts.
He might have been the one responsible for the endless nightmares that had haunted me for so long, the ones that left me drenched in sweat and trembling, but now, after seeing Fenrir, I couldn't help but wonder how he might influence my dreams in the nights to come. Would the nightmares become more passionate, more intense, more terrifying? Even the thought made me shiver involuntarily, yet one thing was clear in the dark corners of my mind: the howl I heard from Fraun today was not the same as the wolf that had appeared in my dream.
So, the creature I had seen in my dream—so menacing, so unreal—was not Fraun. Then who or what was it? And why did it possess me every time I slept, whispering, pleading, commanding? Why had it begged me to stop the last time, instead of simply torturing me as it always had before? The questions pressed on my mind like a weight I could not lift, each one twisting tighter with every heartbeat.
Fear settled over me like a cold blanket, heavy and suffocating. I didn't know what to do, didn't know how to prepare for the night ahead. And now, as my eyes grew heavy and sleep beckoned, I know the worst part was only just beginning.
...