Celine woke with the smell of antiseptic still clinging to her skin. For a long moment, she couldn’t tell if she was entirely back in the café or somewhere else. The ceiling above her wasn’t sterile white, not the flat brightness of hospital lights. It was the familiar ceiling of her apartment—faintly yellowed in the corners, shadow pooling in the edges.

Her chest rose sharply as memory snapped back—or rather, failed to. Her last clear image was of light, blinding and absolute, ...