The morning smelled of cold tea and rain. I had barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, the light from the chain flared up again – brief, like a flashing thought that couldn't be banished. Now it hung quietly around my neck, dull and harmless. Only I knew that it wasn't.
In the bathroom, the mirror was fogged, the steam making the world soft. I wiped the glass, and my face appeared, pale yet alert at the same time. My fingers rested on the chain. It felt warmer than my skin.
Dishes clattered downstairs.
"Lina? Time to get up!" Mom called, friendly but with that restlessness she had when she couldn't hear me coming.
"I'm already up," I answered and splashed water on my cheeks, as if I could wash away the night.
Tom sat at the table, stuffing cornflakes into his mouth while Dad flipped through the newspaper. Everything was as usual – too normal to feel real.
"You look tired," Mom said.
"Studied late."
She nodded, too quickly. No one asked further.
