“I came for you,” I said, steadying my breath. “I’m here to get you out.”
She scoffed, shoulders tensing. “Yeah? And how did you find me?”
I held her hand tighter, anchoring her to me.
“Licia, please. I’m real. And I’m here to get you out.”
She yanked her hand away, the flicker of hope crushed beneath fear.
“No,” she said, voice dropping low. “I know what this is.” She shook her head again, shrinking back. “This is the end, Kera. There’s nothing after this.”
The words gutted me, but I held firm.
“No,” I said quietly. “No, Licia. We’re getting out of here.”
She stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
“No. We’re not. I’m not. You can’t save me.”
The ache split open inside me.
“You are,” I whispered. The words rushed out like water breaking through a dam. “I will get you out of here, no matter what it takes. I will do anything. Everything.”
Her gaze lifted slightly, eyes searching mine.
“You’ve seen it, Licia. You know what I am. What I can do.”
“My visions…” she murmured, dazed. The word tasted strange in her mouth. She blinked slowly, fighting to stay conscious. “Right.”
“I found your painting.”
Her brow furrowed. “My painting? Which one?”
“It was of me,” I said, voice cracking. “Soaring. In smoke and fire.”
Her breath caught. “How… how did you find it?”
“The man with the tattoos. He sold them.”
Licia flinched. Her hands clenched the blanket in fists, knuckles pale.
“Ero! That bastard!” she spat. “He sold my paintings? That fucker.”
There was still rage in her, raw and burning, and beneath it, the kind of hurt that never truly heals. But for a moment, I saw her.
The girl I remembered.
The fierce, fearless Licia.
“He didn’t just sell my paintings, Kera. He sold me.” Her voice splintered, suddenly too young. “I didn’t do anything wrong and he sold me. People can’t be sold. You can’t sell people!”
“I know,” I breathed. “I am so sorry, Licia. I am so sorry.”
“How old are you?” Her eyes traced my face. “You look… different.”
“So do you,” I said gently, trying to smile.
“Are you actually here?”
