(Almira's POV)
It’s raining again.
Not the kind of storm that rips trees apart or makes the sky look like it’s bleeding—just a soft, persistent drizzle. It slicks the earth, darkens the windowpanes, and blankets the world in a hush. Everything feels quieter in the rain.
I sit curled up in the large armchair by the hearth, an old, knitted shawl draped over my shoulders. My fingers absently trace the rim of the mug in my hands—lukewarm tea now, the scent of ginger and lemongrass still clinging to the steam.
Hazel is humming under her breath as she braids wildflowers into her doll’s coarse black hair. She talks to it as she works, whispering stories about ancient queens and brave daughters. The stories sound suspiciously familiar—versions of mine that I thought she was too young to rememb
