The clock struck midnight as Vyan finally returned to his bedroom, the soft click of the door echoing into the silence. His feet were worn from running around all day—one physician to another, libraries to archives, from hope to disappointment.
For the eighth consecutive day, he'd failed. The answers he so desperately sought to save Iyana continued to elude him, slipping through his fingers like sand in a storm.
His limbs felt like stone as he stepped inside. And there, she was.
Lying still, her breathing barely traceable, eyes closed in a quiet, seemingly eternal sleep.
At the end of the day, he loved and hated coming back to his room. Loved because he could see Iyana. Hated because she didn't greet him.
But tonight, he even hated the sight of her. Not because of her particularly. It was what she was wearing. It made him see red.
A simple black gown draped her pale frame. It was as elegant as it was haunting. A jarring, cruel choice. Black. Mourning. Funeral.
