The dream faded slowly, like mist lifting off warm pavement in the early morning sun. It left behind a haunting sweetness that made the act of waking feel like a betrayal.
Eloise surfaced from sleep the way one emerges from deep, heavy water—disoriented, lungs burning with a phantom need, unsure which way led to the air. In the final, flickering moments of unconsciousness, the dream still clung to her like a silken shroud. It had been so long since her mind had dared to give her something gentle, something not stained with the bitter salt of her mother's voice.
In that hazy world, she had heard her father's laugh—warm, steady, and resonant, like the low notes of a cello. She had felt Drake's arm slung around her shoulders, heavy and familiar, a weight that had once felt like "forever." It was a world where the car hadn't crashed, where the music hadn't died, and where she was still the Princess.
