I woke up to the scent of rain and the distant hum of voices. My body felt weightless, floating between reality and something far more distant.
A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes as I blinked against the dim light filtering through the curtains. The room smelled sterile, like antiseptic and faint traces of lavender.
"She's awake," a voice murmured. A figure shifted at my bedside.
I turned my head slowly, my muscles protesting. My mother. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She reached for my hand, her fingers trembling.
"Scarlet," she breathed, voice thick with relief and something else—fear.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, my voice stolen. I could still hear the echoes of my own whisper: I'm sorry.
Then came the memory—the figure in the shadows, the weight of my decision, the moment everything changed.
But... what had I chosen?