Page 53 of Fire and Silk
Silk Root, Dantès Estate
When I open my eyes, the light feels wrong.
It’s soft and golden, too warm for morning and too steady to be natural. My lashes stick together as I blink, slow and dry, and for a second—just one—I think maybe I’m home. Maybe the room is mine. Maybe the past few months never happened.
But then I see the vent.
The new screws. The faint scrape in the wall where the old grate hung. And I remember.
My stomach curls in on itself.
I try to sit up, but my arms are weak, trembling as I drag myself toward the edge of the bed. My muscles protest the movement, tight and clumsy. Each breath tastes like iron and lavender, and the scent makes my throat close up. I cough —just once—but it’s enough to make my vision blur at the edges.
My fingers find the bed frame and I clutch it like it might keep me from dissolving.
I look around.
The same walls. The same smooth stone floor. The same heavy door without a handle on my side. Nothing has changed. Nothing.
I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still trapped.
A tear slides down my face before I feel it coming. It slips off the edge of my chin and disappears into the blanket pooled in my lap. I don’t wipe it away. My hands are shaking.
I let my head fall forward, hair spilling over my shoulders, and I whisper into the space between my knees.
“Why?”
My lips are cracked. My voice comes out broken, barely a thread.
“Why am I still here?”
My hands shake when I try to wipe the tears away, and I miss. They keep coming, slipping down the corners of my mouth, warm at first, then cold as they reach my throat. My whole body hurts. It’s not the ache of something broken—but something bruised in many places all at once. My chest tightens, but it isn’t breathlessness.
It’s shame.
The kind that lives just under the ribs. The kind that pulses with each beat of your heart and says,you failed at dying, too.
The silk sheet clings to my legs. My knees are drawn up, weak. I can't even cry the way I want to. My throat won’t let me. The sobs rise and collapse, jagged and small. I press the heel of my hand to my sternum as if I can force the pressure down. My face is hot, wet, and swollen. I know what I must look like—skin pale and blotchy, hair damp and tangled across my neck, lips cracked and raw from crying.
The room watches me in silence. Even the lights feel like they're holding their breath.
Then I hear it.
The hiss of the magnetic lock releasing.
I freeze.
The door opens.
I don't lift my head at first, but I hear the step. Fast. Familiar. Controlled in that military way, like each heel hits the ground only because it must.
I look up.
And I see him.
