Marlowe
The drawer wouldn't open, no matter how hard I pulled at it, and somewhere behind me my father's voice kept saying my name like he was trying to warn me about something I couldn't quite hear clearly enough to understand.
I woke gasping, tangled in the sheets, King's side of the bed already cool beside me — he'd gotten up early for morning rounds, the way he always did, and I lay there a long moment letting my heart rate settle, the dream's specific details already sliding away the way dreams always did, leaving only the shape of it behind. A locked drawer. His voice. The particular, frustrated helplessness of reaching for something that wouldn't give.
It wasn't the first time. It had been recurring for weeks now, always slightly different in its exact texture but always circling
