That night, Cecilion drifted into sleep in his tent alone, only with a weight in his chest he couldn't explain. His body ached—not from fatigue, but from memory. Sleep didn't feel like rest. It felt like a descent. A slow unraveling.
When his eyes fluttered open, he expected the bleakness of the present, the mists... the darkness... oh how he'd wanted to see those again, but he needed to know.
And so, there's the sunlight.
The wind was soft and warm, brushing through his hair with a familiar tenderness. He blinked up to a bright sky, pale blue and scattered with drifting clouds. The metallic scent of the rooftop hit him first, followed by the faint smell of cafeteria bread and the distant noise of students laughing down below.
He was back. Awake.
