DYERMorning arrives without ceremony.

No alarms. No warnings. Just a slow bleed of pale light through the high windows of the den, touching stone and wood with a softness that feels almost mocking after the night I’ve had. I’m awake before it reaches me, eyes open, staring at the same ceiling I fell asleep beneath.

The dream hasn’t loosened its grip.

It sits in my chest like a second heart, pulsing out of rhythm with the first. Every breath reminds me of the forest, the pull, the scream ...