The footsteps echo through the corridor like the slow, deliberate beat of a heart—measured, unhurried, yet carrying an urgency that betrays their calm. They grow closer, drawing nearer to the heavy door, and when it swings open, he steps inside.
Silas.
I do not move.
I remain seated on the edge of the bed, the dark silk sheets pooling around me like spilled ink, smooth and cool beneath my palms. My eyes are still fixed on the walls—on the countless blue eyes that stare back at me from every corner, every surface, every shadow.
My eyes.
Blue.
He stops two steps away from the bed. I do not look at him, but I can feel his gaze on me—heavy, searching, worried.
"Honey..."
His voice is soft, careful, like he's approaching something fragile.
I do not answer. My eyes stay fixed on the pictures, on the thousands of frozen moments that captured me without my knowledge.
The silence stretches between us, thick and patient.
