POV: Layla BrooksThe warehouse was cold, but it wasn’t the kind of cold you could wrap a coat around. It was the kind that lived inside your chest, that crept in like fog and clung to your bones. The kind of cold that came from shame and silence.I sat slumped against the crate, arms still bound, knees pulled to my chest. My father lay a few feet away, eyes half open now, his breathing slow but steady. They’d given us just enough food and water to keep us alive. Just enough to prolong the waiting.He stirred again. His voice, dry and hoarse, drifted across the room.“Layla… are you awake?”I straightened, my joints aching. “Yeah. I’m here.”He turned his head toward me, and the pain in his eyes made me look away.“I thought I was dreaming,” he whispered. “But I’m not, am I?”“No,” I said quietly. “You’re not.”He nodded slowly. “They took you too?”“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Because of me.”A silence settled between us—thick, uneasy, familiar. The kind of silence that had existed betw
최신 업데이트 : 2025-06-29 더 보기