The next morning, Serafina’s eyes fluttered open, swollen and heavy, as if each blink carried the weight of the night before. Her body ached, her chest tight with the memory of what had happened. She was in her own bed. The room was still, almost too still, as if even the air held its breath.
Her tears refused to fall now; they had abandoned her in the dark hours. She forced herself to get up, splashing water on her face until her reflection in the dressing table mirror stared back cold, wounded and unrecognizable.
An opened ointment sat on the table, the cap loosely hanging. She froze, her eyes narrowing. ‘He had been here.’
The thought sent a surge of irritation through her chest. Without another glance at the ointment, she grabbed it and turned toward the connecting door.
Her steps
