My room lay in half-darkness, the street lamp painting splotches of light across the wall. I sat on the bed, knees pulled up, phone in both hands. Alaric's message still glowed on the screen, warm like a tea bag in cold water: 6:40, three bites, no heroism.
So small, so concrete – almost laughable against words like inpatient that had thundered through the air today. And yet I felt how these three bites became an antidote, a plan that could breathe.
The necklace lay heavy in my palm. Infinity. A word that isn't a guarantee, just a direction.
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Lina?" my mother asked, already halfway in. No doctor in sight, no judgment in her voice – just tiredness and warmth.
"You okay?"
I nodded. "Sort of... okay."
