I wake before dawn, not because of noise or panic this time, but because something inside me is restless in a way that feels sharp and insistent, like my body has already made a decision my mind is still catching up to, and I lie there for a long minute staring at the ceiling while the packhouse breathes around me, quiet and heavy with last night’s aftermath. The room smells faintly of pine and soap and the twins, and that alone steadies me enough to sit up slowly and press my feet into the floor, grounding myself in the familiar routine of brushing my teeth, splashing water on my face, tying my hair back with hands that still feel faintly warm if I focus too hard on them.
The power hasn’t gone away overnight, and that truth hums under my skin like a live wire, not painful but present, as
