Silver Star

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Eve slept quietly.
The room around her was quiet, still but sterile. Morning light filtered in through the blinds, soft and golden, brushing gently across the pale sheets and the quiet rise and fall of her chest. A monitor hummed a slow rhythm beside her, in time with her breath. She didn’t stir.
Her body lay cocooned beneath the covers, head tilted slightly toward the window. White bandages were still wrapped across her brow and temple, holding soft padding over the space where she once had a left eye. The silver lashes of her right eye flickered once — caught in the slipstream of some dream — but settled again.
She looked peaceful, in that way the exhausted sometimes do. But the tension was there, just beneath the surface. The faint furrow of her brow. The slight twitch of her fingers against the sheet. Her lips parted slightly, breath catching now and then, as if her mind wandered, as if something chased her even here.
But sleep held her gently.
For now, she did not have to fight. For now, she did not have to be strong.
She just had to rest.