Myra
I woke to a sound that didn't belong in a dream. It was high, jagged, and carried a frantic edge that sliced through the remnants of my sleep like a dull blade. My room was freezing—the deep, biting chill of a February night—but there was a secondary layer to the air. It was thick. Oily. It smelled like an old garage, a heavy chemical weight that made my throat itch before I even fully opened my eyes.
"Tony?" I whispered, reaching across the cold sheets. My hand met only a lingering, fading warmth.
I sat up, my heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. I pulled my thin robe over my nightgown, my bare feet hitting the floorboards. I followed the sound toward the back of the apartment, toward the internal door that led to the private wooden stairwell. As I reached the landi
