Dylan opened his eyes.
Unlike the last time, he didn't wake with a jolt or a scream. He simply rose… slowly.
He remained lying there, arms still, eyes staring into the darkness. The haze of sleep still clung to his thoughts. But this wasn't the kind of dream that fades at dawn. It was something heavier. Denser.
He didn't move right away.
He stared into the void above him, as if somewhere in that shadow, he still hoped to see the silhouette of Raviel. Or the little girl. Or maybe… a bundle of wood in his arms.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the echo of silence, muffled by the thick layers of night and the sleeping camp.
He inhaled—this time, deeper.
And yet… something was missing.
Not something real. Not an object. But a feeling. A warmth.
A tenderness.
He placed a hand on his chest. As if to check that he was really there. That he was still himself.
And he understood. This wasn't just a nightmare.
It was a fracture.
