Michelle
The scarf was suffocating. Not because it covered my face — I'd gotten used to that long ago — but because it reminded me every damn second of who I wasn't allowed to be anymore. Every thread, every itch against my skin screamed, You're not Michelle. You're Carolyn.
I crushed the fabric in my hand, the coarse material biting into my palm. The frustration burned hotter than the midday sun seeping through the narrow window slit. My reflection in the glass looked blurred and ghostly — a phantom trapped between shadows and light. That's all I was now. A ghost.
I turned away sharply as the door creaked open.
Liam stepped in like he owned the place, silent and smooth, the scent of pine and steel following him. His eyes found mine beneath the scarf's veil, and for a heartbeat, something flickered there — irritation, calculation… maybe both.
"You're pacing again," he said, voice low, almost lazy, but I could hear the warning beneath it. "That's not how ghosts behave, Michelle."
