The candle has burned itself into a sad little pool of wax. I stopped counting hours a while ago. Time feels warped in this room, stretched thin and useless, like it knows better than to move forward. The raven has not moved from its perch on the table, red eyes fixed on me like I am the one who needs watching. Maybe I am.I keep shifting in the chair, trying to find a position that does not make my spine feel like it has been hammered flat. The wooden back digs into my shoulder blades every time I lean forward. I welcome the ache. Moving means looking away from her, and I cannot do that. Not even for a second.Nevaeh has not stirred since Elara left. Her breathing is still too quiet, too even, like she is practicing being gone. I have checked her pulse so many times my thumbprint is probably branded into the inside of her wrist. It is there. Slow. Stubborn. Like her. It refuses to disappear, no matter how much the rest of her seems to fade.The room smells of dying herbs, cold stone,
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