The dreams no longer felt like dreams.

Each night, Leila entered them as though she were simply stepping from one room into another. The boundary between sleep and waking dissolved. Sometimes, she feared she would never find her way back. Sometimes, she did not want to.

Because even in suffering, her daughter was there.

The little girl was five now. Her hair had grown long and wavy, the same shade of midnight that Leila saw in the mirror. Her eyes, though — they shone brighter, like twin sparks of gold, alive with a fire that refused to dim.

Leila’s heart swelled every time she looked at her. “My fairy,” she whispered, brushing the girl’s hair back. “My miracle.”

But her hands trembled when she tried to braid those soft curls. Her fingers, once nimble, shook too much, tugging strands unevenly. The girl frowned, then laughed, her small hands reaching up to help.

“I’ll do it, Mama,” she said proudly.

Leila smiled through her tears. “One day, you will. But not yet.”

Her cough cut the words short. She turned her head, hiding the blood that stained her palm. Her daughter did not see. She must not see.

Time in the dream blurred forward, faster and faster. Leila found herself lying more often than standing, her body frail, her limbs too heavy to lift. Her breath rattled in her chest.

Yet her daughter never left her side.

She brought her water in a chipped cup. She curled up in the narrow bed, tucking herself against her mother’s chest as if she could keep her alive by refusing to let go. She sang the lullabies back to Leila now, the same songs her mother had once sung through tears.

Leila listened, stroking her hair with what strength she had left. The songs cracked, off-key, but they were the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

“You are my light,” Leila whispered one night, her voice barely more than air. “Even if the world burns, you will always be my light.”

The girl looked up, eyes wide and wet. “Then don’t leave me, Mama.”

Leila’s throat tightened. She kissed her daughter’s forehead again and again, unable to answer.

The dream shifted again.

The air was heavy, thick with silence. Leila lay in her bed, her skin pale as parchment, her lips colorless. The curtains swayed with a draft that carried the faint scent of lilies.

Beside her, her daughter — five years old, beautiful, fragile — clung to her arm, shaking her gently. “Mama,” she whispered. “Wake up. Please wake up.”

Leila’s breath came shallow, every inhale a battle. Her chest ached with each rise and fall. She turned her head slowly, her gaze meeting her daughter’s. Tears blurred her vision, but she forced a smile.

“My fairy…”

The girl sobbed, pressing her face into her mother’s arm. “Don’t go. Please, Mama. Don’t go.”

Leila’s hand lifted, trembling, and brushed the curls back from her daughter’s wet cheeks. Her touch lingered, memorizing the softness of her skin.

“I love you,” she whispered. “More than life. More than the stars. Always.”

Her eyes grew heavy. The world dimmed.

Her daughter’s cries filled the chamber, sharp, desperate, tearing through the silence.

And then—

A howl split the air.

Not a celebration’s howl. Not a wolf’s call to the moon.

A cry. Deep. Raw. Shaking the walls. A sound of grief so vast it rattled through her bones even as they turned cold.

Leila’s last breath slipped from her lips as the howl echoed, carrying her into darkness.

When she woke, she was screaming.

Her body jerked upright, sweat soaking her nightdress, her chest heaving as if she had just clawed her way back from the grave. She pressed her hands to her mouth, but the sobs tore free anyway.

The dream clung to her like tar. Her daughter’s voice still rang in her ears. The sound of that final howl still shook in her chest.

She curled forward, clutching her stomach, rocking. “My fairy,” she whispered into the dark. “My love. My miracle.”

Her words echoed back to her in the silence of the tower, as empty as the halls in her dreams.