The warmth of the evening's celebratory feast should have acted as a sedative. It should have provided Amara with the first night of truly peaceful sleep she had known since the kidnapping. Instead, as the lights of the estate dimmed and the silence of the forest pressed against the glass, the atmosphere shifted.
Amara fell into a sleep that felt less like rest and more like a drowning.
She found herself standing in a place that felt hauntingly familiar, yet physically impossible. It was a sprawling, infinite field of wildflowers. Vibrant blues, deep purples, and soft, bleeding lavenders stretched toward the horizon under a sky the color of a permanent, bruised sunset. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, damp earth, and rain. It was a scent that her heart recognized instantly. It was the scent of comfort. It was the scent of life before the fire. It was the scent of Hansen.
