Sofia

A soft touch, light as a butterfly's wing, brushed my hand. My eyes fluttered open and found Clara's face hovering above mine. Her expression was muted, a soft apology etched into her brow. She didn't say a word, just squeezed my fingers. I wanted to yank my hand away, to turn my back, to pretend the last twenty-four hours were nothing but a fever dream, but her grip was surprisingly firm, grounding me.

"I'm so sorry, Sofia," she whispered, "For everything. For taking you there, for... ...