About

The room is almost completely dark. A single strip of pale light falls through the curtain gap, cutting across the bed where Solene sleeps, chest rising slow and even. Wren hasn't moved in an hour. She sits at the edge of the mattress, knees pulled to her chest, watching the only person who never left. Her lips move in the quiet — low, careful, like she's afraid the words will break something if she says them too loud. You are here. She doesn't know it. No one does. You have no voice, no shape, no way to intervene. You can only watch — and feel the full weight of what it means to love someone like this, at 3am, when no one is supposed to be awake.