I cried until the darkness is no longer just a color; it is a weight. It presses against my chest, filling my lungs with the scent of wet limestone and my own unwashed skin. I don't know how long I cried. My throat is a desert, and my eyes are swollen, burning with the salt of a thousand regrets. Eventually, the exhaustion won. I slipped into a sleep that felt more like a coma, a heavy, dreamless void.

Then, something shifts.

It is a sensation so light it could be a stray draft or a ghost. A ...