chapter 225

Harper

It’s been two days.

No—three. I’m almost certain of it now.

Time doesn’t move normally in a room without windows. It stretches and folds in on itself, becomes something thick and unreliable. I measure it by trays of food. By the ache in my back when I wake up. By the way the light from the small chandelier above me never changes—always the same dull yellow glow, never brighter, never dimmer