Terrible Nights, Quiet Mornings

Valentina lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t shake the image of Evelyn’s blood from her mind. She had worked so hard to move past the trauma of her mother’s death, but tonight it felt as fresh as it had five years ago. She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around her, trying to will herself to sleep. But the memories wouldn’t leave her alone.

She remembered being six years old, standing in the bank next to her mother, holding her hand. She remembered the sound of gunfire, the feel of her mother’s hand slipping from hers, and the sight of the blood. Valentina squeezed her eyes shut, but the memories kept replaying.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame her, and she fell into a fitful sleep. Her dreams were plagued by the same images—her mother’s face, the sound of the gunshot, the pool of blood spreading on the bank floor. Each time she woke up gasping, her heart racing.

The third time she woke up screaming, Sofia was there, shaking her gently. “Valentin