Rain's POV :
I drag myself out of the shower.
My muscles protest the movement immediately, a dull ache spreading from my knee up through my hip and into my lower back.
The towel is wrapped around me, but it feels inadequate, heavy with damp, clinging to skin that still hasn't cooled.
The roof above me smells dusty and old, like wood that hasn't been aired out in years. There's no ventilation. Only shutters. No crack of light from the outside world.
I last saw the sun four days ago.
I know that because I've started counting the time between his visits. Dane comes at intervals I can't predict.
He brings food.
Makes sure I eat.
Gives me medicine.
Checks my knee with methodical efficiency. And then he leaves.
Without a word.
For the most part, I rely on him to tell me whether it's morning or night. The light in this room never changes.
It stays warm and dim, casting the same dull shadow across the walls no matter what time it is.
