(Mira POV)
I survived.
But I don't know what version of me came back.
Everyone keeps saying I'm safe, like it's a destination. Like the moment danger stopped breathing down my neck, everything else was supposed to follow. My body believes them—mostly. I'm indoors. Warm. Fed. Dressed in clothes that don't smell like fear or metal or someone else's authority.
But safety doesn't feel like relief. It feels like standing in a room after a storm has passed and realizing the walls are still wet, the furniture shifted, and the air charged with something invisible and sharp.
My body reacts before my mind can interpret it.
A cup clinks against the counter, and my shoulders tense. Footsteps pause outside the door, and my spine goes rigid.
Sometimes I stare at nothing for minutes, not lost—absent. Like my consciousness steps aside and lets something quieter and colder take over.
