She could hold her breath. She’d done it before—minutes at a time, until her lungs burned and stars burst behind her eyes. But the mist was patient. It always waited.
But her heart stuttered anyway, because she remembered—yesterday afternoon, she’d dried rosemary on that sill. Had she latched it? She’d been tired. So tired. Fear the Night
Slow. Measured. Not frantic. Hollow never hurried. She could hold her breath