counting bullets, not blessings

In every corner, brass sconces cast a soft yellow glow, drawing long shadows across the limestone walls. The sound of waves crashing grew louder as I neared my room at the end of the hallway, ocean wind slamming against rock like a thousand secrets dying to be told.

I opened the bedroom door. Warm. Quiet. The white linen curtains fluttered slowly in the breeze coming in from the open balcony. The scent of salt and sand kissed my face, filling my lungs with the illusion of freedom.

I stepped outside.

The cliffs below stared back at me, jagged and unforgiving, slammed over and over by the dark sea glowing under a half-dead moon. Wind swept my hair back, cold strands sticking to my neck and cheeks.

I closed my eyes, letting the chill sting my skin, soothe the fire still burning low in my chest since earlier that day.

I gripped the wrought iron balcony railing. My fingertips pressed into the cold metal, grounding the soft hum in my head. The night felt silent here, though I knew somewhere