Unlike the first time this happened, River didn't run.
Every nerve in her body screamed at her to turn, to flee, to disappear down the corridor the way she had the first time, when the grief was fresh and the betrayal was new and her legs made the decision before her heart could stop them. Her feet wanted to move. Her chest wanted to collapse.
The girl who had spent her entire life making herself small in rooms where her presence felt borrowed wanted to fold inward and vanish.
She stayed.
Because she had already run once, and running had killed them all.
The grief still hit in full. It rose from the floor of her chest like floodwater, filling every space inside her that composure usually occupied, and the composure didn't stand a chance.
