Amelia
I didn’t know how long I had been there. Time didn’t work the same way anymore. There were no windows, no clocks, no rhythm to the light. Only the sound of whispers and the slow, ever-present pulse of my heartbeat.
Sometimes they strapped me to a table, and sometimes they let me walk in circles around a featureless stone room. Sometimes I dreamed I was back in the Pack House, lying beside Richard, and when I opened my eyes, I realized the dream had been part of the cage too. It hadn’t come from me. It had been constructed, too sweet and too gentle. A memory I was meant to miss, long for, ache over. I woke confused, empty, and colder than before.
They didn’t always speak aloud. The voices came in layers, like threads winding through my mind. Some were gentle, almost maternal. Othe
