Borrowed Warmth

Nadia

The waiting-room chair was cold steel and it bit through the thin fabric of my summer dress that still carried the scent of Torin’s blood.

Most of it had dried on the dress that I didn’t bother to change.

I sat rigid on the edge of the cold chair, arms wrapped around myself, and watched the same three seconds of memory play on an endless, merciless loop behind my eyes.

If this steel chair wa