Raya had not stepped out of her room in days.
The curtains were drawn tightly shut, muting the morning light into a soft gray haze that stretched across the walls and carpet. The only source of brightness in the room was the small, dim lamp on her bedside table, its light glowing like a lonely candle in a chapel of silence. The air was heavy with stillness, the kind that made every small sound feel large. Every rustle of the notebook, every shift of fabric, every slow exhale.
Seraphina's diary lay open across Raya's lap, pages fanned out like wings of a trapped bird. The paper was delicate, slightly yellowed, corners softened with time. Raya had been careful turning each page, careful not to smudge ink or crease paper, as though mishandling the diary might make Seraphina's presence vanish entirely.
She read as if she were breathing the words in.
As if life depended on it.
