The day rose without brilliance, timidly.
Pale and trembling, the light filtered through the grimy inn curtains, painting the room in faded amber hues.
Dylan opened his eyes without moving. He knew exactly where he was, and what was resting on his stomach: the light, warm weight of Élisa's head, still there, as if frozen in an endless dream. Her breathing was slow, steady. Calm. Like a sleeping child.
Maggie, for her part, had slumped against the wall and eventually dozed off there, arms crossed, face relaxed. She looked like a soldier fallen asleep between two watch posts. She slept like people who never let themselves sleep.
Dylan, on the other hand, had barely slept. Or if he had, it was the kind of stiff sleep that doesn't repair anything. He had spent most of the night listening to the creaking wood, Élisa's quiet breath, and the silence. Mostly the silence.
His eyes stared at the ceiling, where the night had inscribed itself in invisible lines.
