The voice went on.

Soft. Measured. Familiar—and not.

"Leya…"

She winced in the darkness, her body contorting against the air. Shoving her head back, fists on the bed.

No one came in. They did not knock again.

They just waited.

Not like Harrison. Not like Eleanor.

This. this was no threat donning silence.

It wasn't that. More, somehow.

Doubt.

She did not respond.

She never blamed the voice.

But she recalled—uttering them uttered ...