Maria.
Pain came first.
Not sound.
Not sight.
Pain.
It pulsed through every inch of my body before my mind could even form a coherent thought. Sharp. Hot. Throbbing in relentless waves that overlapped and collided until I couldn't tell where one sting ended and another began. My skin felt swollen, stretched too tight over bone, as if it no longer fit me properly.
Even breathing hurts.
Each inhale dragged across my chest like sandpaper, slow and abrasive, catching on something raw inside me. My ribs protested with every shallow rise, and when I tried to draw in more air, the ache deepened, radiating outward in tiny, burning pinpricks.
I groaned before I even realized I was awake. The sound slipped out of me, low, broken, involuntary.
And then memory came.
Not whole, not steady, just broken flashes.
The shawl.
Silver threads catching light.
The hum.
Low.
Growing.
The swarm.
Bees.
