Nina

The cold stone walls of my cell seem to close in with each passing hour. How long have I been here? Days? Weeks?

Time bleeds together in this darkness, broken only by the dim light filtering through the tiny window near the ceiling.

My hands trace the rough surface of the wall, fingers catching on jagged edges, a sensation that’s become almost comforting in its familiarity.

Jack. His name burns in my mind like acid. He should be dead. He should be rotting in the ground by now, not ...