IRIS

The morning comes too fast.

I roll over, groggy and unready, the cold edge of dawn slicing through my bedroom blinds. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, hoping maybe I’d dreamed everything from the porch, the silence, the promise of training, the weight of a war I didn’t choose.

But reality sits heavy in my chest, right where sleep used to be.

I throw off the covers and dress slowly. Black leggings, a fitted long-sleeve top, and sneakers. Something practical. Something I can move in. I pull my hair into a loose tie and glance at the phone on my nightstand.

Still nothing from Darian....