IMOGEN'S POV
The soft glow of evening light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the living room. I sank deeper into the couch, my hair still damp against my neck, leaving a darkened patch on the shoulder of my oversized sweater. My legs, tucked beneath me, had long since fallen asleep, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The throw blanket—one of the few possessions I'd managed to keep—lay rumpled across my lap, its familiar weight both comforting and confining.
Across from me, Talia sat perched on the edge of the armchair, her spine straight in a way that spoke of years of discipline. Her leather-bound notepad balanced on her knee, held in place by slender fingers adorned with a single silver ring. The pencil in her hand moved in swift, practiced strokes, the sound of graphite against paper filling the silence between us.
