The moment James entered the kitchen, I knew something was wrong. I could see it in his eyes, the haunted look that had been growing darker with each passing day. It had been a long, draining night already, but seeing him now—pale, shaken—I felt my heart drop. The curse was winning, and no matter how hard we fought, it was taking more from him, day by day. I closed the book I had been studying and stood up, moving toward him instinctively.
"James," I said softly, trying to keep my voice calm. "What is it? Did you have another nightmare?"
He nodded, his face tight with pain, and my heart broke a little more. I reached for him, taking his hand in mine, but I could feel the tension in his body. He was barely holding it together, his grip weak, like he was slipping away from me. I led him to the kitchen table, guiding him to sit down while I moved toward the stove to pour him a cup of tea. Anything to ground him, to bring him back to the moment.
