The night did not end when the clock struck twelve. It stretched quietly, almost tenderly, inside the dim bedroom where Ayla lay curled beneath the cartoon printed blanket.
Her fever had eased slightly around late evening, but her body still felt heavy, as if each limb belonged to someone else. The air in the room was warm from the heater, yet a faint chill lingered in her bones.
At some point, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Ayla."
The voice was low and steady.
Her lashes fluttered open. The ceiling light was off, only the small bedside lamp casting a muted glow that blurred everything into soft gold and shadow. Her mind felt muddy, thick, like she had to push through fog to understand where she was.
Silas stood beside the bed, holding a bowl.
"Sit up," he said quietly.
She obeyed slowly, movement sluggish. The blanket slipped from her shoulder, and a faint shiver ran through her. He adjusted the pillow behind her back without comment, then lifted a spoon to her lips.
