Chapter 41:
Each time, the same cruel finale: her mother’s arms around her, the whisper against her hair—”Mina, don’t be afraid. I’m here.”—before the dream splintered, and those loving hands dissolved like smoke.
She’d scramble, grasping at emptiness.
“Mom! Mom!”
Her child-self and adult-self ran in futile tandem, legs pumping, throat raw, but the silhouette ahead only receded further.
Freya jolted awake, her skin slick with sweat.
She lay still, waiting for her pulse to slow, then dragged herself upright against the headboard.
It had been so long since she’d dreamed of her mother.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was barely three in the morning. She sat up against the headboard, trying to steady herself, then reached for the glass of water on her nightstand. It was empty. With a quiet sigh, she got out of bed and headed downstairs.
She didn’t bother turning on the lights.
Unlike the harsh clarity of daylight, the night felt safer.
In the dark, there were no illusions, no pretenses—just silence stretching endlessly around her.
As she filled a glass with water, her mind remained tangled in the dream.
For two years, she had tried not to think too much about her mother, fearing that dwelling on the past would only bring more pain—that if she ached for her too much, her mother’s spirit might worry for her from wherever she was. But tonight, that buried longing surged to the surface, relentless and unstoppable, breaking free like roots cracking through stone.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice someone else in the dark until she accidentally bumped into him. The sudden contact sent a splash of water spilling—some onto him, some onto herself.
Read new content at gⱯlnσv𝒆ℓs․com
Before she could react, a low, drowsy voice sounded above her. “Why didn’t you turn on the light?”
“It’s unnecessary,” Freya said, her voice as calm as ever, offering no further explanation.
Kristian exhaled and reached for the switch. The room was instantly flooded with light.
Freya flinched, her eyelids squeezing shut against the assault. When she opened them, Kristian stood frozen in the glare, water darkening his shirt.
Kristian, dressed in pajamas that mirrored Freya’s in both hue and style, stood before her with his collar nonchalantly unbuttoned and his hair charmingly tousled. This casual disarray lent him a rugged allure, softening the usual severity that cloaked his features and injecting a spontaneous charm into his presence.
Lost in the nostalgia of the scene, Freya felt a wave of emotions transporting her back to the blissful dawn of their marriage.
Catching her gaze drifting, Kristian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the shimmer of tears that clung delicately to her lashes. The sight caused a tightness in his throat. “Why are you crying?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and confusion.
“I’m not crying!” Freya countered. Despite her attempt to sound strong, her disheveled appearance from being roused from sleep betrayed her true feelings.
.
.
.