Ghosts of the Past

The war had ended. But peace was an illusion.

Sophia woke with a start, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The room was dark, bathed only in the faint silver glow of the city lights outside. Her skin was damp with sweat, her heartbeat an erratic drum against her ribs. The air felt thick, heavy with something she couldn't quite name.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

She lay still, ears straining for any sign that what she had felt—what she had heard—had been real. But there was only silence. The steady hum of the city below, the distant wail of a siren cutting through the night, and the rhythmic breathing of the man beside her.

Andrew hadn’t woken.

She turned her head, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He slept peacefully, one arm stretched toward her side of the bed, as if even in unconsciousness, he reached for her.

Sophia exhaled shakily, her fingers curling into the sheets.

It was just a dream.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.