JAYNAYAH

The first time I woke up, I thought I was back in the cellar.

My body knew fear before my mind understood light. My fingers curled into the sheets beneath me, expecting dirt. Cold stone. Rot. The hard press of darkness against my face.

But the sheets were soft.

Warm.

Clean.

I opened my eyes slowly, afraid that if I moved too quickly, the dream would crack and Michael would be standing over me again.

The ceiling above me was not the low, mold-darkened wood of the Blood Moon cellar. It was high and pale, touched by morning light spilling through tall windows. The air smelled of lavender, cedar,...