Page 15 of Ruthless Knot

"I lack sufficient data on human grief processing," she finally responds. "However, research suggests that trauma integration rather than erasure is the more realistic goal."

"So that's a no."

"That's a 'maybe never, but you learn to carry it differently.'"

"Depressing."

"Honest."

I huff a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze.

"Yeah. Okay. Cool. Love that for me."

My mother died years ago. Ten years, four months, and sixteen days, if we're counting. Which I am, because my brain won't let menotcount.

Her face—the way it looked in death, slack and wrong and so far from the woman who braided my hair and taught me port de bras—still visits me in dreams.

Sometimes I wake up tasting copper.

Sometimes I wake up screaming.

Sometimes I wake up and don't remember falling asleep, just the terror of watching it happen again and again and again on the backs of my eyelids.

Does it get better?

Fuck if I know.

I'm still waiting to find out.

The path curves, taking me past the last of the residential buildings and into the transitional zone—that grey area between "home" and "war zone" where the rules get fuzzy, and the danger gets real.

The sky is just beginning to lighten at the edges, that pre-dawn grey that makes everything look washed out and ghostly. Sunrise is maybe twenty minutes away. Maybe less.

I like going to the post office this early.

Before the chaos. Before the crowds.

Before the violence reaches its daily crescendo.

Just me and the postal staff who've learned to expect me every Wednesday morning at exactly 5:47 AM, because my OCD demands consistency and my ADHD needs structure or I'll spiral into a three-day cleaning binge that ends with me reorganizing my entire townhome by color, size, and perceived threat level.

The postal workers know me by name now.

"Morning, Sera. Got another letter for your mystery pen pal?"

"Sera, you're here early. Even for you."

"Blood on the seal again? Jesus, kid."

They think I'm insane.

They're not wrong.

But they're kind about it, which is more than most people in this hellhole manage.

So I bring them stolen pastries sometimes, swipe decent coffee from the administrative offices, smile my sharpest smile, and pretend we're all just normal people doing normal things.

Instead of a packless Omega with a body count delivering blood-sealed letters to someone whose name she doesn't even know.