Sleep does not hold me anymore.
It pretends to, sometimes. I drift just far enough that my thoughts loosen, that my body sinks heavy into the mattress and my breathing evens out. Then the Moon-Realm presses back.
Not as images.
As weight.
Pressure blooms beneath my ribs like something expanding where there should be space. It is not pain. It is insistence. A dense pull that makes my lungs work harder, that turns each inhale into something deliberate instead of automatic. The sensation creeps upward, settling behind my eyes until my skull feels too small for what it contains, like my thoughts are being crowded out by something heavier.
My wolf lifts her head every time it happens.
She does it calmly, without alarm, ears angling toward a sound only she can hear. Not a threat. Not a war
