Shadows of Yesterday

(Laila 's POV )

The walls of my room used to feel warm. Once, they smelled like my mother's perfume-roses and vanilla. Now, they're just walls, covered in shadows that stretch with the passing hours. I sit by the window, knees drawn to my chest, staring at the sky as if it holds answers.

It doesn't.

It's been over a year since she died.

Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. A hundred different ways my life has unraveled.

And now, just two weeks after my father's grand wedding, he's shipping me off like I'm some problem that needs fixing.

My fingers tighten around the locket at my neck. It's old, the gold slightly tarnished, but it holds the only picture of my mother I have left. She's smiling in it, caught mid-laugh like she didn't know the camera was there. My chest tightens.

She wouldn't have wanted this.

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I don't answer. A second later, the door creaks open and her voice fills the space.

"Laila , sweetheart, we need to talk."

Stepmother.

I don't look at her. I don't even bother turning around. Instead, I stay perfectly still, my gaze locked on the clouds. It's better that way. Looking at her, I see the delicate pearls around her neck-the same ones my mother used to wear.

I might say something I regret.

My father's voice follows, deep and businesslike. "Laila , enough with the silent treatment. Turn around."

I don't.

A sigh, then footsteps. My father moves across the room, stopping just beside my desk. He's tall, broad-shouldered, still carrying the air of authority that makes grown men listen when he speaks. But to me, he's just the man who moved on too quickly.

"We've made a decision," he continues. "You're going to spend the summer at Ledge-hill Rehabilitation Camp."

My stomach twists. "Excuse me?"

Stepmother steps forward, folding her hands over her stomach. "It's not what you think, darling," she rushes out. "It's not one of those... clinical places. It's more of a summer retreat, you know? A place to heal. To grow."

To get rid of me.

I let out a slow, steady breath. "I don't need healing."

Stepmother's eyes soften. She looks like she's about to cry. Always so dramatic. "Oh, honey, I know you think that, but-"

"No, you don't," I cut in. "You don't know anything about me."

A silence stretches between us. For a second, I think my father might step in, might defend me, might act like the father he used to be-but he doesn't. He just pinches the bridge of his nose, already exhausted by me.