I'm not dead, I think to myself as I sit by the window, sunlight spilling across the wooden floor. My gaze drifts to my son, sitting cross-legged with his wooden toys spread out around him. His little brow furrows in concentration as he carefully stacks one block on top of another, his tiny hands steady and sure.
Without Thorne, I didn't think I would ever feel this okay, let alone happy.
I lean back in the chair, my fingers brushing over the armrest as I watch him. He's a perfect blend of us, carrying Victor's dark, unruly mane of black hair but my green eyes and smile. My chest tightens with a warmth that's both comforting and overwhelming.
The setting sun bathes the room in a golden glow, the kind of light that makes everything feel a little more magical, a little more peaceful. I stretch, my joints popping softly, and just as I stand, I hear it—the unmistakable clippity-clop of hooves approaching.
