Phoenix sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers pressed to her temples as if she could physically push the memories away. The cold weight of the past pressed down on her like an iron shroud, but she forced herself to focus on the present.
The flickering candlelight of the room, the faint chirp of crickets outside, and the creak of the floorboards beneath her bare feet grounded her, pulling her back from the edge of the abyss.
She inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling in a deliberate rhythm. She could almost hear Donovan's light-hearted but insistent voice, "Breathe, child. That's half the battle."
A soft knock on the door broke the silence, startling her. Before she could respond, Annette entered, her features illuminated by the faint glow of a lantern she carried.
"Phoenix," Annette said, her voice gentle but firm, "you don't look well. I came to check on you."
