Not a Damsel in Distress!

The room had stilled again, but it wasn't the suffocating kind of quiet anymore.

It was the kind that hummed. Waited.

Samantha glanced down at the pendant. It hadn't moved. Hadn't flickered or pulsed.

But she could still feel it—like a heartbeat beside her own. Silent. Watching.

"I thought remembering would fix something," she said suddenly, her voice barely more than breath.

Ron looked over.

She kept her gaze low. "But it didn't. I don't feel stronger. I just feel… cracked. Like I'm made of glass and someone tapped the wrong corner."

Ron didn't rush to answer. He let the silence settle between them again before saying, "Sometimes cracks are where the light comes through."

She huffed, not quite a laugh. "That's so cheesy."

"Yeah, well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm not exactly Yoda."

She glanced at him then. The corner of her mouth lifted—but only slightly. It was the first almost-smile she'd made in hours.

He saw it.

Didn't point it out.

Just tucked it into his chest like something precious.

A breeze stirred the curtains. Outside, the sun was still rising—slow, reluctant.

Samantha shifted under the blanket, finally lying down on her side, eyes toward the window.

"You can go," she murmured. "I'm just gonna lie here and pretend I'm not unraveling."

Ron hesitated. "Do you want me to go?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then, quietly, "No."

So he stayed.

Pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat beside her.

He didn't touch her. Didn't speak.

Just existed beside her—breathing, blinking, grounding.

She closed her eyes again.

And somewhere between the sound of his breathing and the ache in her ribs…

She slipped into sleep.

The silence around her didn't fade into blackness.

It melted into light.

A gentle gold, like sunrise through stained glass.

No chaos. No screaming memories. No pendants pulsing against her ribs.

Just light, warm and familiar, like the memory of peace.

When Samantha opened her eyes, she was somewhere else entirely.

The sky above was vast and violet-blue, streaked with silver clouds that shimmered softly.

The air smelled of sun-warmed earth and something sweeter—jasmine, maybe, or something older.

She stood on a stone path, barefoot. The walkway curved ahead through fields of gently swaying flowers. Their petals brushed against her fingertips as she walked, whispering against her skin like old friends. Pale blues, soft pinks, a golden bloom she couldn't name.

Her hands were not her hands.

Slimmer. Adorned with delicate gold cuffs. She turned them over in the light.

Not Samantha.

Saryel.

But it didn't frighten her.

If anything, it calmed her.

She walked forward, as though following a rhythm only her soul remembered.

A melody that played beneath her feet, humming through the earth.

Birds trilled somewhere above, their songs layered like lullabies.

The wind wrapped around her shoulders like silk, tugging strands of long, silver-streaked hair across her face. She tucked them back without thought.

A soft bell rang in the distance. Not alarming. Welcoming.

Ahead, the path led toward a raised platform of pale stone.

A garden altar, surrounded by translucent trees that glittered faintly with dew.

She paused.

Her breath caught.

The petals, the sky, the wind—they knew her.

This wasn't a dream she was witnessing.

This was a memory she was in.

---

The scene blurred.

When it cleared, she stood in a different place.

The chamber.

But not the one she'd collapsed in.

Not hollow. Not cold.

Now, it was alive.

The once-dark walls now glowed with soft etchings—lines of ancient text curling in gentle loops, pulsating faintly with light.

Plants grew along the edges, curated into spirals, cared for.

There was a scent in the air—lavender, sandalwood, heat.

A silken canopy hung from above, not oppressive but comforting.

Books lined the walls. Cushions of vibrant color scattered across the floor.

Saryel's chamber wasn't a tomb.

It was a home.

Samantha turned slowly. A breeze swept through, rustling the fabric.

She stepped toward the center, where a pool of water reflected the ceiling's celestial design.

For a moment, she saw her reflection again—Saryel's. Strong. Beautiful.

Not glowing with divine power. Just existing.

Content.

---

It shifted again.

Now, laughter.

She stood in an open courtyard. Evening now—darker skies, lanterns dancing in the air like fireflies.

The ground beneath her was warm mosaic. Music echoed from a distant instrument.

And people.

Everywhere.

Tall, graceful beings in layered robes of all shades. Some younger, some older.

All turned toward her with affection. Joy.

Someone handed her a fruit carved like a flower. Another offered her a folded message with a joke scribbled on it.

A child raced past her, laughing, only to double back and throw their arms around her leg.

And Saryel—Samantha—laughed.

Not a soft chuckle. A full-bodied, unfiltered laugh that shook her shoulders.

She twirled, grasping the child's hand, dancing once—twice—before releasing them to their game.

The love in the air wasn't worship.

It was something better. Belonging.

A shared history. A shared joy.

Someone called her name from across the courtyard, and her heart leapt with recognition before her mind caught up.

She turned.

And there they were.

---

Alaric.

Golden-eyed, robes loosened from ceremony, his smile relaxed for once. One arm draped lazily around a goblet he probably wasn't supposed to have.

Ramiel.

Sitting on the stone ledge, legs swinging. Their laughter was lighter than air, like wind chimes. Their eyes sparkled with mischief and love.

And her—Saryel—walking toward them, arms crossed with mock sternness. "You're going to ruin the floor with that drink."

"You say that every week," Alaric grinned.

"Because you ruin the floor every week," Ramiel chimed in.

They all laughed—loud and warm and real.

Then, the three of them leaned together. Shoulders touching. Heads tilted skyward.

For a moment, it was silent.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been said.

That moment—the stillness between hearts that knew each other too well—was perfect.

And it broke something in Samantha to feel it.

Because she could tell—

This was before the fracture.

Before the loss. Before the forgetting.

Before it all went wrong.

---

The scene dimmed.

The stars overhead began to blur.

And Samantha—

Samantha—

opened her eyes.

---

She was still in the room. Ron was still nearby, chin resting on his hand, eyes half-closed.

She sat up slowly.

Her chest rose and fell in quiet waves. No panic. No chaos.

Just… full.

The dream hadn't scattered like the others. It hadn't left behind flashes or dread.

It lingered.

Warm. Soft. Real.

She touched the pendant again.

It was cool, still. But it felt different now. Less like an artifact.

More like a heartbeat pressed into gold.

Ron stirred beside her. "You okay?"

She didn't answer right away.

Her eyes fixed on the sliver of sun now slicing across the floorboards.

Her fingers closed around the pendant.

"I saw her life," she whispered.

Ron blinked, more awake now.

"She had… everything. Friends. A home. People who adored her. They laughed together, danced, told dumb jokes—" her voice cracked, "—it was beautiful."

He said nothing. Just listened.

She swallowed.

Her shoulders trembled once, like they wanted to cry again—but no tears came.

"They all seemed so happy," she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

Then, softer:

"Where did it all go wrong?"