“The silence is the worst part, isn’t it?”

Amara stood by the balcony door of the hotel suite, her silhouette framed by the flickering neon lights of the city below. The pulse of London—a rhythmic, distant thrum of traffic and life—seemed to mock the stillness inside the room. She didn’t turn around to look at Celeste, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at her phone as if it were a live grenade. The device’s screen cast a cold, blue pallor over Celeste’s features, making her skin look like marble.

“I used to think the noise was the problem,” Celeste replied, her voice barely a whisper, a thin thread...