Lucia awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. The remnants of a dream—or was it a memory?—clung to her consciousness like mist, slipping through her grasp even as she tried to hold onto it. She sat up in the small, makeshift tent, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps, her skin damp with a cold sweat. For a moment, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was, but then the reality of her situation came rushing back. The forest, the escape, Miranda… and Luke.
She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow. The dream had been so vivid, so real. She could still feel the warmth of the sun on her face, the smell of pine in the air, the sound of laughter. But it wasn’t just any laughter—it was Nicholo’s. The memory of his voice, his presence, had been so clear, so tangible,
