On the fifth night, a dream came.
Not Elias's dream. Mine.
I saw her again—my wife.
Her face glowing in candlelight, her smile soft, her hand slipping into mine. For a moment, the memory almost felt safe. But then the scene twisted. Her laughter became the one from the video, cruel, mocking. Her body tangled with another man's.
The dream shattered like glass, shards slicing into my chest. I woke with a scream, clawing at the mud, while Elias's comrades cursed at me to shut up.
But the truth carved itself deeper into me:
I wasn't just carrying Elias's pain.
My own was still alive, festering, unhealed.
And it was waiting for me in every reflection.