The Marks I Didn't Make
The dream began, as it always did lately, with darkness that had weight to it—a thick, velvet black that pressed against her eyelids even though they were already closed. Leopard floated somewhere beneath the surface of sleep, aware of her own body the way you're aware of a room you've memorized: the shape of the ceiling fan, the particular creak of the floorboard by her closet, the familiar give of her mattress. Except none of it felt quite right. The air tasted different. Metallic, almost. Like a coin held too long on the tongue.
She heard footsteps that weren't footsteps—more like a current moving through still water, a displacement rather than a sound. Someone was in the room with her. She knew this the way she knew her own name, without needing to be told, without needing to open her eyes to confirm it.
*Don't be afraid,* said a voice, and it wasn't a voice so much as a vibration that started in her chest and worked its way up through her throat. Low. Unhurried. The kind of voice that assumed obedience rather than requesting it.
She tried to move and couldn't. Her limbs had turned to something heavier than flesh, something closer to wet sand, and panic sparked in her…
