Till The End of The World
CLARA
The next morning comes too fast. It drags me out of sleep like something unfinished, something clawing its way back.
For a second, I don’t move.
The ceiling above me should feel unfamiliar—yet it isn’t. Sunlight spills through the stained glass, breaking into soft fragments across the white ceiling, scattering color where there should be none. My fingers twitch against the sheets, the fabric cool and smooth beneath my skin, and I sink deeper into the pillow.
How surprising can life be? One day I was the happiest woman alive, with a kind husband and a perfect family, a future that looked… safe. Then the next day, I'm killed by that same kindness.
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